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SIXTY  YEARS  OF  RECOLLECTIONS 


SIXTY   YEARS 


OF 


RECOLLECTIONS 


M.    ERNEST    LEGOUV& 

Of  thf  Acadimie-Franiaise 


TRANSLATED,  WITH  NOTES,  BY 

ALBERT     D.     VANDA.M 

The  Editor  of  An  Englishman  in  .' 

IN    TWO     VOLUMES 


VOL.     II 

EDEN,      KKMINGTON     &     CO. 
LONDON    AND   SYDNEY 

1893 

ALL    HK.IITS  IIKKBKVKK 


L 


\ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

M.  Legouve's  first  Play. — How  the  Idea  of  it  was  conceived. — The 
Development  of  it.— Prosper  Goubaux,  the  author  of  '  Trente  Ans 
ou  la  Vie  d'un  Joueur'  and  '  Richard  Darlington.' — Goubaux  'col- 
laborates' with  M.  Legouve. — M.  Legouve"'s  First  Appearance 
before  the  Reading  Committee  of  the  Comedie-Francaise. — The 
Committee  declines  the  Play. — The  Manager  of  the  Vaudeville 
accepts  it.— The  Casting  of  the  Play.— At  the  Dress  Rehearsal  the 
Authors  conclude  that  the  Play  is  worthless.— M.  Legouve  writes 
to  that  effect  to  the  Manager,  asking  him  to  withdraw  the  Play. 
— The  Servant  forgets  to  deliver  the  Letter. — The  Piece  produced 
and  its  Failure. — The  Author  promises  himself  to  redeem  his  Name 
as  a  Dramatist.— Prosper  Goubaux,  the  Founder  of  the  System  of 
Professional  Education  in  France. — The  Pension  Saint- Victor. — 
Goubaux's  Money  Trials. — His  Interview  with  M.  Laffitte. — An 
Insight  into  a  French  School. — Goubaux's  Pupils. — Whj  he  wrote 
' Trente  Ans  ou  la  Vie  d'un  Joueur.'— A  Corneille  of  Melodrama. 
—The  Success  of  Goubaux's  Play.— He  writes  another  in  con- 
junction with  Alexandre  Dumas.— A  Glimpse  of  the  Author  of 
'The  Three  Musketeers.'— Frederic  Lemaitre.— His  Suggestions 
to  Authors. —  The  Difference  between  Frederic  Lemaitre  and 
Talma. — A  Portrait  of  Lemaitre. — Lemaitre  and  Casimir  Dela- 
. — Goubaux's  Career  as  a  Tutor. — His  Final  Victory. — His 
:d  at  the  Hands  of  the  State, i 

CHAPTER  II 

A  digression  on  Dramatic  Collaboration.— Mme.  Legouve*  tells  a  Story 
— Her  Husband  tees  the  subject  of  a  Comedy  in  it. — He  seta  to 
work  at  once  to  draw  the  Plan. — Opportune  arrival  of  Goubaux. — 
They  make  up  their  minds  to  [collaborate  once  more.— A  few 
:ices  of  Collaboration.  —  II  -\  M.  Lcgouve  and  Prosper 
Goubaux  wrote  'Louise  de  Lignerolles.'— A  French  Interior.— 
The  Authors  are  stopped  by  a  difficulty. — How  Authors  find  their 


vi  Contents 

Sensational  Effects  and  Denouements. — How  M.  Legouve  found 
his.— A  true  Story.— M.  Legouve  finds  a  Letter  relating  to  it  among 
his  papers  and  at  the  same  time  finds  his  Denouement. — A  peep  at 
the  National  Guards  in  the  late  Thirties.— The  Dress  Rehearsals 
of  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles.'— The  Premiere.— Success,  .  .  46 

CHAPTER  III 

The  four  Principal  Interpreters  of  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles ' ;  Mdlle. 
Mars,  Firmin,  and  Geffroy  Joanny. — The  combined  Ages  of  the 
two  Lovers. — Firmin. — Firmin  compared  to  his  Successor  ;  De- 
launay. — Firmin's  Appearance  and  Gait. — His  Style  as  compared 
to  that  of  Delaunay. — The  Byplay  in  Love. — Avowals  Then  and 
Now. — No  more  Kneeling  at  the  beloved  Woman's  feet. — Firmin's 
Want  of  Memory. — His  Devices  to  minimise  the  evil  effects  of  it. 
— His  last  Years  and  Death. — Joanny. — His  Peculiarities. — His 
Punctuality. — Expects  the  same  from  his  Fellow- Actors. — '  I  have 
a  Chicken  for  Dinner  which  cannot  wait,  etc.' — His  Ante-Theatrical 
Career. — His  magnificent  Style. — His  Politeness. — Geffroy. — M. 
Legouve  selects  him  to  play  a  part  in  his  Piece  in  preference  to 
his  older  and  more  experienced  fellow-actors. — He  becomes 
Famous  in  one  evening.— Mdlle.  Mars.— 'Was  she  Pretty?'— 
'  Am  I  Pretty  ?  '—Beauty  On  and  Off  the  Stage.— Refuses  to  play 
any  but  Young  Girl's  Parts. — Her  Reasons. — Her  Artistic  Merits. 
— Her  Love  Affairs. — An  Anecdote  of  her  Early  Life. — Mdlle. 
Contat  and  the  Black  Thread. — The  Use  of  Slang  on  the  con- 
temporary stage.— Sardou's  first  Attempt  to  introduce  it.— Mdlle. 
Mars  as  a  Dramatic  Adviser.— The  Success  of  '  Louise  de  Ligne- 
rolles.'—Mdlle.  Mars  afraid  of  Mdlle.  Rachel.— Her  reluctance  to 
tell  her  Age.— Her  last  Years.— Her  Deathbed.— Exit.— 'The 
Ruling  Passion  strong  in  Death,' 74 

CHAPTER  IV 

Eugene  Scribe. — The  beginning  of  my  friendship  with  him. — A  Letter 
to  him  and  his  answer. — Scribe's  Birth  and  Parentage. — His  School- 
days and  College  Chums. — His  beginnings  as  a  Dramatist. — A 
strange  Collaborates. — A  scene  from  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer'  in 
real  life. — How  Scribe  became  the  owner  of  Sericourt. — My  success 
with  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles.' — A  Piece  on  an  Episode  in  the  Life  of 
General  Lamarque.— -A  qualified  success. — The  balls  of  the  Due  de 
Nemours. — Court  Dress  in  the  forties. — Scribe  wants  to  write  a 
modern  play  for  Rachel. — I  find  the  subject. — Scribe  at  work. — 
An  Essay  on  Scribe  as  a  Dramatist. — Scribe  as  a  Librettist. — A  pre- 
dicament of  Dr  Ve'ron. — Scribe  converts  a  dull  tragedy  into  a 
sparkling  comedy. — Scribe's  Stage  Tricks. — His  Denouements. — 


Contents  vii 

His  reconstruction  of  two  of  Moliere's  denouements.— Scribe  as  a 
Stage-Manager. — Scribe   and  Louis-Philippe. — Scribe  as  a   Friend 
and  as  a  Man. — Scribe  and  his  Love-Affairs. — '  How  happy  could 
be  with  either,'  etc. — A  Last  Love. — His  Death,          .         .         102 

CHAPTER    V 

Rachel. — Why '  Adrienne  Lerouvreur '  was  written. — Rachel  changes  her 
mind  ;  the  Piece  declined  by  the  Committee  of  the  Comedie 
Franchise. — The  Race  of  Managers  to  get  hold  of  the  Play. — M. 
Legouve's  determination  to  impose  the  Play  upon  Rachel. — His 
success. — Rachel  at  Rehearsal. — An  evil  foreboding. — Rachel  asks 
M.  Legouve  for  another  Piece.— He  writes  it.— The  result.— Rachel 
as  a  Dramatic  Adviser. — Rachel  in  her  True  Character. — Her  last 
Days, 172 

CHAPTER  VI 

A  Portrait-Gallery. — Samuel  Hahnemann,  the  Inventor  of  Homoepathy. 
— How  I  became  acquainted  with  him. — Hahnemann  and  his  Wife 
at  my  little  Daughter's  Bedside. — A  physical  Portrait. — His  Direc- 
tions.— '  Throw  Physic  to  the  Dogs." — He  predicts  the  Crisis  to  a 
Minute. — He  saves  my  Daughter's  Life. — The  Paris  Faculty  of 
Medicine  disgusted. — A  Doctor  a  la  Moliere. — It  would  have  been 
better  that  this  little  girl  should  have  died.— The  Origin  of  Hahne- 
mann's  System. — His  Language. — His  religious  Belief. — The  Sen- 
tence under  my  Daughter's  Portrait. — Madame  Hahnemann.  —  Her 
History. — Her  Faith  in  her  Husband. — Hahnemann's  Dietary. — His 
Death  at  eighty-three. — Chretien  Urhari. — An  ascetic  Musician. — 
His  physical  Portrait. — How  he  reconciled  his  Religion  with  his 
Art. — He  gets  a  Dispensation  from  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  to 
play  in  the  Orchestra  of  the  OpeYa.— How  he  did  play.— A 
and  what  came  of  it.— His  Visits  to  my  Wife.— A  Lesson  to  a 
Lady  of  Title. — His  Reverence  for  the  Composer's  Idea.— He  i;t 
.  es  Schubert  to  Frenchmen.— Jean-Jacques  Ampere.— Jean 
Jacques'  Father.— Absentmindedness  of  the  Father  and  Son — 
Ampere's  personal  Belongings.— The  Difference  between  the 
Father  and  Son  intellectually, 205 

CHAPTER  VII 

The   Portrait-Gallery  continued.— Two  Dramatic   Counsellors. 

constitute^  Counsellor  ? — Germain    Delavigne. — A 

Trio  of  Sue  kin^  ins.—  Scribe  and  the  two  Del.ivignes  at 

wnrk.— -Their 'I  :,  I  >inners. — V  ^e  of  Subjects. A 

Witticism  of    Louis   Philippe.— M.    Muhciauh.—  Dramatic  Coun- 


viii  Contents 

seller  and  Art  Collector.— M.  MaheVault's  one  Client.— M.  Maher- 
ault's  Father. — The  Origin  of  the  Comedie-Frangaise  of  To-day. 
— The  Actors  of  the  old  Comedie-Fransaise  during  the  Reign  of 
Terror.— The  Difficulties  of  constituting  the  Comedie-Francaise. 
Council's  Opinion.— The  Way  it  is  Received.— Virgil's  Timidity. 
—A  French  Counterpart  of  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary.— Scribe's  Way  of 
accepting  Advice.— An  Anecdote  of  Gouvion  Saint-Cyr.— How  the 
Abbe  was  introduced  into  'Adrienne  Lecouvreur.'  —  Maherault's 
Passion  for  the  Drama. — Mahdrault  as  an  Art  Collector. — The  Sale 
of  his  Collection. — c  If  after  Death  the  Shades  can  feel,'  .  231 

CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Portrait  Gallery  continued. — M.  Etienne  de  Jouy,  the  Father  of 
the  Parisian  Chronique. — The  Salon  of  M.  de  Jouy. — M.  de  Jouy 
as  a  Benedict.— Mdlle.  de  Jouy,  afterwards  Mme.  Boudonville.— 
M.  de  Jouy's  Guests. — M.  de  Jouy's  Talent  for  Parody. — M.  de 
Jouy  as  a  Librettist  and  Dramatist. — A  Glimpse  of  Talma. — The 
Libretto  of  '  La  Vestale.' — A  First  Glimpse  of  Meyerbeer. — The 
Libretto  of 'Guillaume  Tell'  suggested  by  Mme.  Boudonville. — 
Intended  for  Meyerbeer — A  Silhouette  of  Rossini,  .  .  257 

CHAPTER  IX 

The  Portrait  Gallery  continued. — Lamartine. — Lamartine's  Pride. — 
His  Manias. — Lamartine's  opinion  of  himself  and  of  La  Fontaine. — 
His  opinion  of  Rossini. — Beranger's  opinion  of  one  of  Lamartine's 
Poems.  —  Lamartine's  kindness.  —  As  a  Statesman.  —  His  first 
appearance  in  the  Chamber. — His  wonderful  capacity  for  grasping 
a  Subject. — His  hatred  of  the  Napoleonic  Legend. — His  Prophecy 
with  regard  to  the  ultimate  result  of  it. — Lamartine  and  an  Anecdote 
of  Turner,  the  Painter. — How  '  1'Histoire  des  Girondins'  was  com- 
posed.— Lamartine  goes  to  see  an  old  Member  of  the  Convention. — 
Lamartine's  Impecuniosity. — The  Revolution  of  '48.— A  Glimpse  of 
a  Revolutionary. — Lamartine  at  the  Hotel-de-Ville. — Lamartine 
misjudged.— Madame  de  Lamartine.— Her  Devotion.— Lamartine's 
Funeral, 273 

CHAPTER  X 

The  Portrait-Gallery  continued.— Beranger — My  first  meeting  with  him. 
His  position  in  the  World  of  Letters. — His  moral  courage. — The 
Atheism  of  the  XVII Ith  century  and  ours. — Beranger's  Religious 
Sentiments. — His  admiration  for  the  Literature  of  Greece. — His 
influence  over  Great  Men. — Whence  it  sprang. — His  Wit. — His 
love  of  poor  people  and  of  young  people. — Three  Letters,  .  309 


SIXTY  YEARS  OF  RECOLLECTIONS 


CHAPTER  I 

M.  Legouve's  first  Play. — How  the  Idea  of  it  was  conceived. — The 
Development  of  it. — Prosper  Goubaux,  the  author  of  '  Trente  Ans 
ou  la  Vie  d'un  Joueur'  and  'Richard  Darlington.' — Goubaux  'col- 
laborates' with  M.  Legouve. — M.  Legouvd's  First  Appearance 
before  the  Reading  Committee  of  the  Comedie-Franc.aise. — The 
Committee  declines  the  Play. — The  Manager  of  the  Vaudeville 
accepts  it. — The  Casting  of  the  Play. — At  the  Dress  Rehearsal  the 
Authors  conclude  that  the  Play  is  worthless. — M.  Legouve  writes 
to  that  effect  to  the  Manager,  asking  him  to  withdraw  the  Play. 
— The  Servant  forgets  to  deliver  the  Letter. — The  Piece  produced 
and  its  Failure. — The  Author  promises  himself  to  redeem  his  Name 
as  a  Dramatist. — Prosper  Goubaux,  the  Founder  of  the  System  of 
Professional  Education  in  France. — The  Pension  Saint- Victor. — 
Goubaux's  Money  Trials. — His  Interview  with  M.  Laffitte. — An 
Insight  into  a  French  School. — Goubaux's  Pupils. — Whj  he  wrote 
'  Trente  Ans  ou  la  Vie  d'un  Joueur.' — A  Corneille  of  Melodrama. 
— The  Success  of  Goubaux's  Play. — He  writes  another  in  con- 
junction with  Alexandre  Dumas. — A  Glimpse  of  the  Author  of 
'The  Three  Musketeers.'— Frederic  Lemattre.— His  Suggestions 
to  Authors.  —  The  Difference  between  FredeYic  Lemattre  and 
Talma. — A  Portrait  of  Lemaltre. — Lemattre  and  Casimir  Dela- 
vigne. — Goubaux's  Career  as  a  Tutor. —His  Final  Victory. — His 
Reward  at  the  Hands  of  the  State. 

I 

morning  while  we  were'  ,  in  tin-  oumtry 

Lfl  taking  a  stroll   with   my  \\itr   and  one  of  my 
VOL.    II  A 


2  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

dearest  friends,  Prosper  Goubaux,  the  author  of 
'  Richard  Darlington/  and  '  T  rente  Ans  ou  la  Vie 
d'un  Joueur,'  when  all  of  a  sudden  there  flashed  upon 
me  a  title  which  seemed  to  me  to  contain  a  fit  subject 
for  a  comedy  :  '  La  Marche  d'un  Secret.' 

I  had  no  intention  of  imitating  La  Fontaine  in 
showing  a  secret  travelling  from  mouth  to  mouth  and 
getting  magnified  in  its  progress.  Not  at  all.  I  was 
tempted  by  a  more  profound  idea  ;  I  wanted  to  de- 
velop the  *  physiology  of  indiscretion,'  I  wanted  to 
dramatise  the  various  motives  which  cause  us  to  dis- 
close a  secret  that  has  been  confided  to  us. 

The  action  of  the  piece  was  laid  in  the  Pyrenees. 
It  began  with  the  conversation  of  two  young  fellows 
of  twenty.  One  of  these  has  just  returned  from  his 
first  appointment  with  a  married  woman ;  his  happiness 
positively  chokes  him  ;  he  confides  everything  to  his 
friend,  because  he  finds  it  impossible  to  hold  his 
tongue,  because  every  young  fellow  of  twenty  who  is 
in  love  or  thinks  he  is  must  necessarily  have  a  con- 
fidant ;  it  is  the  *  indiscretion  of  love  and  youth.' 

As  a  matter  of  course,  his  friend  has  sworn  to  keep 
the  secret.  Unfortunately  the  friend  is  also  in  love, 
but  with  a  widow  who  keeps  him  at  arm's  length. 
She  has  got  scent  of  the  affair  and  wants  to  know  all 
about  it  and  insists  upon  her  admirer  telling  her. 
He  objects  ...  he  knows  nothing  about  it,  but  she 
becomes  very  pressing.  He  refuses  to  surrender. 
She  sulks  or  pretends  to  sulk. 


Years  of  Recollections  3 

'  You  do  not  care  for  me,'  she  says ;  *  if  you  did,  you 
would  tell  me  everything  ;  if  you  did  tell  me,  it  would 
prove  your  faith  in  me,  and  who  knows  but  that  I 
might  be  grateful  in  my  own  way.' 

The  bait  held  out  is  too  tempting,  the  young 
fellow  loses  his  head  and  tells  her  everything.  It  is 
the  '  indescretion  of  egoism.'  The  young  fellow  tells 
the  secret  confided  to  him.  I  had  conceived  a  rather 
pretty  ending  to  that  scene.  As  soon  as  the  young 
fellow  had  parted  with  the  whole  of  the  secret,  the 
charming  widow  was  supposed  to  rise  from  her  seat 
and  dismiss  him  with  a  smile,  saying,  '  My  dear  sir, 
heaven  preserve  me  from  entrusting  my  honour  to 
a  mm  who  cannot  keep  the  secret  of  a  freind.' 

Third  stage.  What  will  the  widow  do  with  the 
secret  she  has  dragged  from  the  young  fellow?  It  is 
delightful  weather  and  all  the  rest  of  the  visitors  at 
('auterets  are  out  in  the  open  air  and  enjoying  them- 
She  is  alone  with  a  gouty  uncle  who  is  some- 
what deaf  besides.  I  low  is  she  to  spend  her  day,  how 
ie  to  get  through  the  wearisome  hours?  '  If  I 
told  the  story  to  my  uncle?  No,  no,  that  would  be  too 
bad  of  me.  Still,  it  might  amuse  him.  Besides,  I  can 
easily  keep  back  the  names,  I  can  even  say  that  it 
happened  at  B  1  of  at  Cauterets.  Upon 

my  word,  I    fail   to  see  the  harm  of  it,  and  I  must  do 
:hing  to  amuse  the  poor  old  man.'     She  tells  him 
,d  the  third  phase  of  the   play  is  '  indN- 

all    tin-    vis 


4  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

have  come  back  to  Cauterets,  they  are  assembled  at 
the  Casino  in  the  reading  and  drawing-room,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  desultory 
conversation.  '  I  think  I  must  tell  you  a  story,'  says 
the  uncle  all  of  a  sudden.  In  vain  does  the  niece  tug 
at  the  skirt  of  his  coat  to  make  him  hold  his  tongue. 
'  Don't  worry  yourself/  he  answers  in  a  low  voice. 
'  I'll  veil  the  story  carefully.'  And  so  well  does  he 
veil  it  that  after  five  minutes  everyone  has  recognised 
the  hero  of  the  tale,  and  one  of  his  listeners  gets  up 
saying  :  *  Allow  me  to  remind  you,  monsieur,  that  you 
have  forgotten  the  most  essential  thing  in  your  story 
— the  name  of  the  husband.  I  am  the  husband.' 

Goubaux  was  delighted  with  the  subject.  We 
drew  out  the  plan  of  the  piece  during  the  evening,  I 
wrote  it  during  the  night  and  next  morning  we  wrote 
to  the  Comedie-Fran^aise,  asking  leave  to  read  to  the 
Committee  a  piece  in  one  act,  entitled,  '  Le  Soleil 
Couchant.' 

A  few  weeks  later  we  are  in  the  presence  of  that 
terrible  Committee  which  at  that  time  was  not  what 
it  is  to-day,  a  kind  of  council  of  ten  stolid  and  mute- 
like  judges,  making  the  author  feel  like  a  prisoner  on 
his  trial.  The  actresses,  even  the  young  ones,  were 
present  and  their  being  there,  threw  a  cheerful  note 
into  the  proceedings.  They  laughed  at  %the  comic 
scenes,  they  wept  at  the  pathetic  ones,  the  brilliant 
passages  of  a  play  were  applauded,  in  short  it  was  a 
kind  of  '  undress '  rehearsal  which  enlightened  the 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  5 

author  with  regard  to  the  weak  or  strong  points  of 
his  piece,  even  the  silence  that  fell  upon  the  listeners 
now  and  then  served  as  a  lesson.  I  am  bound  to  say 
that  during  the  reading  of  that  particular  piece  it  was 
the  only  lesson  conveyed  to  me.  It  lasted  for  an 
hour  during  which  I  read  with  all  the  warmth,  with 
all  the  conviction  of  an  author  of  twenty-nine.  I 
failed  to  produce  a  single  effect,  not  one,  and  the 
final  result  was  twelve  black  balls.  The  piece  was 
refused  unanimously.  I  had  gone  back  to  the 
country,  and  was  trying  to  get  over  my  failure  as 
best  I  could  when  I  received  a  short  note  from 
Goubaux. 

'  The  Committee  of  the  Com&die- Franchise  does 
not  know  what  it  is  about.  I  have  read  our  piece  to 
Etienne  Arago,  the  clever  manager  of  the  Vaudeville. 
He  thinks  it  very  amusing.  He  is  going  to  put  it 
into  rehearsal  immediately;  he  is  going  to  cast  it 
with  the  best  of  his  company  ;  Bardou,  that  excellent 
Bardou,  will  play  the  uncle,  pretty  Mme.  Th6nard,  the 
widow,  and  for  one  of  the  lovers,  he  is  going  to  engage 
«-i  young  fellow  on  whom  he  builds  great  hopes.  1 1  is 
name  is  Brindeau,  and  I  am  told  that  he  is  very 
good-looking  and  has  a  nice  voice.  I'll  write  him  a 
song  for  his  first  entrance,  it  will  set  him  off  all  the 
better.  Does  that  suit  you?'  If  it  suited  me? 
Thru  weeks  Liter  I  came  up  from  the  country  to  be 
at  the  final  rehearsal.  In  those  days  the 
Vaudeville  theatre-  was  in  the  Rue  de  Cha 


6  .SV.r/r    ]'t'(?rs  of  Recollections 

rehearsal  begins,  the  chief  of  the  claqueurs  was  seated 
next  to  me.  When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  he  said, 
'  It  is  not  very  strong,  your  piece,  but  we  may  manage 
to  pick  two  or  three  good  things  out  of  it.'  I  leave 
the  theatre,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  Place  du  Palais 
Royal,  Goubaux,  a  friend  whom  he  had  brought  to 
the  rehearsal  and  I  stand  stock  still  and  stare  fixedly 
at  one  another. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  '  I  ask. 

'  What  do  I  think  of  it/  exclaims  Goubaux.  '  I 
think  it  abominable.' 

1  That's  what  I  think.' 

'  And  I  too,'  adds  the  friend.  '  If  I  had  had  a  key 
handy,  I  would  have  used  it  as  a  catcall.  Don't  let 
them  play  the  piece  if  you  can  help  it.' 

'  He  is  right,'  says  Goubaux. 

'  Well,  I'll  take  it  upon  myself  to  go  and  see  Arago 
and  to  tell  him  that  we  withdraw  the  piece.' 

Next  morning  at  ten  I  rang  the  bell  at  Arago's  ; 
it  was  the  cook  who  opened  the  door. 

'  Monsieur  has  gone  to  take  a  bath,'  she  says. 

*  Can  I  write  to  him  ? ' 

'  Monsieur  will  find  pen  and  paper  on  that  table.' 

I  wrote  to  Arago  as  follows — 

'  MY  DEAR  DIRECTOR,— This  letter  will  show  you  what  you  have 
probably  never  met  with  in  the  course  of  your  management,  namely  : 
two  authors  who  found  their  piece  so  utterly  bad  at  rehearsal  that  they 
prefer  to  withdraw  it.  Pray  consider  our  "Soleil  Couchant"("  Setting 
Sun"),  as  a  "Soleil  Couche"  ("A  Sun  that  has  set"),— Sincerely 
Yours, 

'E.  LEGOUVE.' 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  7 

Having  written  which,  I  repair  to  Goubaux's  as  fast 
as  my  legs  will  carry  me,  and  we  rush  into  one 
another's  arms  like  people  who  have  just  awakened 
from  a  nightmare. 

The  second  day  after  that  I  leave  home  at  eleven 

in  the  morning  and  while  strolling  along,  happen  to 

my  eye  on  a  play  bill  stuck  against  a  wall.     Ye 

'To-night,  First   Performance  of."Le  Soleil 

Couchant." ' 

If  a  hundred  thousand  candles  had  suddenly  been 
lighted,  nay,  if  the  sun  himself  had  concentrated  all  his 
beams  on  me,  I  could  not  have  felt  more  dazed.  Of 
course  there  and  then  I  rush  to  Arago's.  The  same 
cook  opens  the  door  and  utters  a  loud  cry  on  seeing 
me.  *  Great  heavens  ! '  she  exclaimed,  *  I  forgot, 
monsieur,  to  give  your  letter.  There  it  is,  monsieur. 
Don't  tell  master,  monsieur,  I'd  get  such  a  scolding.' 
The  mischief  had  been  done,  there  seemed  to  be  a 
kind  of  fate  about  it;  the  best  thing  was  to  let  matters 
take  their  course  and  to  wait.  In  the  evening  I  go 
and  hide  myself  in  a  box  on  the  third  tier  while 
Goubaux  bravely  goes  down  to  the  stage  to  support 
our  troops.  The  first  scene,  that  between  the  young 
fcllo\\s  confiding  their  love  affairs  to  one  another, 
went  very  well.  Knc<>uraged  by  this  favourable  be- 
I  also  go  down  to  the  Bardou  '  was 

iblic  laugh  at  some  of  his  lines  and  when 
comes  off,'  he  say-:  '  It'  .lit,  my  la«U,  I've 

got  my  public  in  hand.'  At  the  selfsame  mom* 


8  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

faint,  though  strident  sound,  for  which  I  can  find  no 
name,  falls  upon  my  ear. 

( What's  that  ?  '  I  ask. 

'  That/  replies  Goubaux, '  that's  a  catcall.' 

4  Is  it?' 

The  sound  had  been  provoked  by  Brindeau's  song. 
He  was  singing  out  of  tune  and  they  were  hissing 
him.  I  immediately  disappeared  and  went  back  to 
my  box.  I  did  not  go  down  again,  but  from  that 
moment  the  hissing  went  on  uninterruptedly.  I  have 
never  heard  the  like  in  my  life.  There  were  regular 
dialogues  between  the  actors  and  the  public.  One  of 
the  latter  had  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  '  Give  us  the 
news  from  Spain,'  they  cried  from  the  pit.  Goubaux's 
three  daughters  were  in  an  open  box  and  simply 
shrieked  with  laughter.  In  about  twenty  minutes 
I  turned  tail  in  the  most  cowardly  fashion.  Goubaux 
stood  at  the  wings,  waiting  for  the  actors  to  come  off, 
and  holding  out  his  arms  to  them,  like  they  carry  the 
wounded  off  the  battle-field.  *  My  dear,  good  friends, 
my  dear,  good  friends,'  he  said  to  each  and  all,  *  we 
really  beg  your  pardon  for  having  given  you  such  ex- 
ecrable parts.'  '  I  wish  someone  would  get  me  some- 
thing to  drink/  said  Bardou  ;  c  The  piece  is  over  their 
heads/  murmured  Mdlle.  Thenard.  Over  their  heads 
or  not,  the  curtain  had  to  be  let  down  in  the  middle 
of  it 

The  papers  said  that  the  piece  was  by  two  men  of 
wit,  who  would  assuredly  take  their  revenge  on  some 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  9 

future  occasion.  I  received  seven  francs,  fifty  cen- 
times for  my  author's  fees.  Next  morning  I  said  to 
Goubaux  :  '  The  next  time  I  am  knocked  about  like 
that,  my  dear  fellow,  it  will  be  at  the  Comedie-Fran- 
gaise,  and  with  a  five-act  piece.' 

Two  years  later,  on  the  6th  of  June,  1838,  the  cur- 
tain rose  upon  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles,'  by  Goubaux 
and  myself.  Mdlle.  Mars  was  the  chief  interpreter 
and  the  piece  brought  me  more  than  seven  francs 
fifty  centimes. 

x 

II 

The   reader   has    already   been   enabled    to   judge 
Goubaux,  from  the  scene  at  the  wings  of  the  Vaude- 
ville Theatre.     A  dramatic  author  who  in  the  midst 
of  a  failure  pities  his  interpreters  instead  of  reproach- 
ing them,  tries  to  comfort  instead  of  accusing  them, 
and  apologises  for  having  given  them  bad  parts,  an 
author  who  does  all  that,  paints  as  it  were  his  own 
portrait,  without  the  help  of  anyone  else.     Neverthe- 
this  is  only  a  profile,  for  Goubaux  had  two  pro- 
two  professions  so  utterly  opposed  to  one 
to  exclude  apparently  the   possibility  of 
their  ever  going  hand  in  hand,  yet,  he  proved  hir 
::iincnt  in  both  as  if  he  had  exercised  but  one. 
was  a  dramatic  author  and  a  tutor.     As  a  dra- 
iithor    he     ranks     fore-most    among    original 
As  a  professor  he  ranks  among  the  public 
indebted  to   him    fur   a    new 


IO  St.vS)'    Years  of  Recollections 

system  of  education.  Yet,  of  this  dual  existence,  so 
fruitful  in  results,  what  does  there  remain  ?  Not  even 
a  name,  and  scarcely  a  recollection.  His  dramas  are 
published  under  a  pseudonym  of  two  syllables,  the 
last  of  which  only  belongs  to  him  ;  (Dinaux).  His 
educational  work  bears  another  name  than  his.  He 
ought  to  have  been  doubly  famous,  he  is  unknown. 

It  is  this  unknown  man  whom  I  would  like  the 
reader  to  know  ;  it  is  this  richly  endowed  and  power- 
fully organised  being  in  his  fifty  years'  struggle  with 
evil  fortune  I  would  like  to  sketch.  Few  men  have 
been  more  richly  endowed  by  nature,  and  worse 
treated  by  fate  than  Prosper  Goubaux.  The  one 
bestowed  lavishly,  the  other  grudged  everything 
most  persistently.  The  most  cruel  trials,  the  most 
insuperable  obstacles  uprose  before  him  at  every  step. 
Well,  it  seems  scarcely  credible,  but  when  endeavour- 
ing to  place  my  finger  upon  the  most  characteristic 
trait  of  this  man  who  laboured  and  suffered  so  much, 
I  can  only  find  it  in  that  line  of  La  Fontaine — 

'Et  le  don  d'agreer  infus  avec  la  vie.' 

Without  a  doubt  his  manly  qualities  were  to  the  full 
as  great  as  those  merely  calculated  to  please.  In 
addition  to  his  innate  grace  he  possessed  energy, 
perseverance,  an  indomitable  faith  ;  nevertheless,  with 
him  the  power  to  please  made  itself  felt  beyond 
everything,  clothed  everything,  mingled  with  every- 
thing and  finally  determined  everything.  Whence 


s  of  Recollections  \  I 

sprang  that  power  to  please?     From  his  face?      \  4 

at  all.     From  his  general  appearance  ?     By  no  means. 

He    had  a  thick-shaped  nose,  a  rather  large  mouth, 

small  eyes,  round,  rosy  cheeks  like  a  child's,  a  good, 

but  somewhat  heavy  figure  ;   a  head  that   had    been 

1    from    his    very    youth    and    the   hair    of  which 

•nted  by  a   chestnut    silky  fringe    in    the 

nape  of  the  neck;  but  the  forehead,  the  look,  the  ti 

ed  so  much  goodness,  cheerfulness,  kindness, 
erity  and  sympathy  that  a  mere  glance  at  them 
bred  the  desire  to  hug  him. 

Such  was  the  man  :  here  is  his  life. 

There    are    certain    writers   whose   moral   worth    is 

inferior   to    that  of  their    works.     '  How,'   it  will    be 

d,  'can  the  fruit  of  a  tree  be  better  than  the  tree 

itself? '     I  am  unable  to  say,  but  it  is  a  fact,  neverthe- 

if  not  with  regard  to  the  tree,  at  any  rate  with 

.rd  to  certain  writers.     Favourable  circumstances, 

the  choice  of  a  happy  subject,  sometimes  due  to  mere 

chance,  a  good  position  in  society,  a  certain  strength 

of  character,  capable  of  concentrating  all  its  faculties 

on  one  point,  or  even  a  certain  narrowness  of  intellect 

which    allows    them    to    confine    themselves  to 

ted  order  of  ideas,  all   these  enable  a  few  men  to 
invent    the    fruit  of  their    intellect    at    the    rate  of  a 
hundred    per   cent.      Their    hooks   contain   all   that    is 
in  them,  their  inferior   qualities   are  Carefully  ex- 
Tom  them  ;  a  lucky  accident  does  the  ivst  and 
often   meets   with   people 


1 2  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

who  are  within  an  ace  of  being  famous  and  who  on 
closer  examination  turn  out  to  be  almost  mediocre. 

Altogether  different  is  a  certain  order  of  intellects, 
which,  like  the  sun  on  certain  days,  rise  upon  the 
horizon  bereft  of  their  halo  and  which  shed  more  heat 
than  light.  Those  who  only  know  them  by  their 
works,  only  know  them  partly,  for  the  real  book  in 
which  to  read  them  is  their  mind,  their  heart,  their 
conversation,  their  life.  What  then  has  prevented 
them  giving  the  world  their  whole  measure,  what 
have  been  their  defects?  The  defect  was  that  they 
had  a  few  good  qualities  too  many.  God  endowed 
them  with  too  liberal  a  hand  ;  they  were  too  fond  of 
too  many  things,  they  were  apt  at  too  many  things. 
Their  almost  universal  aptitude  constantly  impelled 
them  to  undertake  different  works,  the  public  gasped 
for  breath  in  trying  to  follow  them  ;  in  some  in- 
stances they,  the  intellects,  were  weighed  down  by  the 
sombre  motto  of  Bernard  Palissey  :  '  Poverty  prevents 
great  minds  from  getting  on.' 

Such  was  Goubaux. 

He  was  of  most  humble  extraction.  His  mother 
kept  a  mercer's  shop  in  the  Rue  du  Rempart,  close  to 
the  Theatre-Frangais  and  which  street  has  since  then 
disappeared.  His  childhood  was  more  than  beset 
with  trials,  it  was  absolutely  unhappy;  a  harsh  and 
even  cruel  stepfather  wielded  his  parental  authority 
tyranically,  and  converted  it  into  a  martyrdom  to  the 
child  who  suffered  from  it,  though  wonderful  to  re- 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  13 

late,  neither  his  heart  nor  mind  was  affected  by  it. 
For  six  years  he  was  maltreated  without  becoming 
ill-natured  himself;  for  six  years  he  bent  to  the  storm 
without  becoming  weak  ;  for  six  years  he  trembled 
without  becoming  a  coward.  His  first  mental  victory 
.1  wonderful  exploit  in  itself.  He  was  more  than 
nine  years  old,  I  believe,  and  he  scarcely  knew  his 
alphabet ;  he  refused  to  learn  to  read.  His  mother 
resorted  to  a  very  ingenious  trick  to  make  him.  She 
took  a  volume  of  stories  and  began  to  read  him  one. 
The  ardent  imagination  of  the  child  was  delighted 
with  that  beginning,  but  all  at  once,  in  the  middle 
of  the  story,  when  the  mother  had  her  small  listener, 
the  playwright  that  was  to  be,  under  her  spell,  she 
closed  the  book,  saying :  '  If  you  wish  to  know  the 
rest,  you'll  have  to  read  it  for  yourself.'  Eleven 
days  afterwards  he  read  it. 

Having  entered  college  on  an  exhibition,  he  made 

such  brilliant  progress  as  to  attain  in  his  own  form 

an  honour,  shared  about  the  same  time  by  two  men 

who  have  become  eminent,  M.  Cousin  and  M.  Ville- 

main.       In    the    absence   of  the   professor,  Goubaux 

his    chair    now    and    then,    and    became    the 

her  of  his  fellow  pupils.     From  that  moment  he 

ived  a  dual  quality  rarely  to  be  met  with.     He 

as  fit  to  teach  as  to  learn.     That   universal 

:  Marvellous   lucid:' 
v.-hich  made  the  study  of  langu 
to   him    as   that  of 


14  \/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

history  as  well  as  of  music,  all  these  were  imported 
by  him  into  his  system  of  teaching.  A  born  teacher 
as  it  were,  he  taught  so  naturally,  with  so  little  effort, 
and  with  such  genuine  eloquence  that  the  same 
faculty  showed  itself  in  his  pupils  ;  they  could  not 
very  well  pretend  to  a  difficulty  to  understand  that 
which  he  explained  with  so  little  difficulty.  The 
clearness  of  intellect  assumed  with  him  the  character- 
istic which  seems  solely  reserved  for  kindness,  it 
became  contagious.  In  addition  to  this,  he  dearly 
loved  everything  that  could  be  taught,  he  dearly 
loved  all  those  to  whom  he  could  teach  something. 
It  was  difficult  to  resist  him.  One  becomes  forcibly 
a  good  pupil  when  the  heart  of  a  friend  obviously 
hovers  on  the  lips  of  a  teacher. 

He  was  fortunate  in  getting  a  number  of  lessons, 
for  at  nineteen  he  was  a  married  man,  and  at  twenty 
a  father.  He  has  often  told  me  that,  in  order  to  in- 
crease his  modest  budget,  he  went  several  times  a 
month  to  look  after  the  books  of  a  lottery  agency 
whence  he  returned  at  two  in  the  morning,  singing 
and  clanking  his  stick  on  the  flagstones  with  a  con- 
quering air,  he  had  earned  two  francs  and  his  supper. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  years  later,  he  was  indebted  to 
that  intellect,  which,  without  exaggeration,  might  be 
termed  marvellous,  for  a  proposal  which  was  almost 
equivalent  to  a  fortune.  A  clever  business  man  called 
upon  him.  '  Monsieur,'  he  said,  '  you  have  a  great 
deal  of  learning  and  I  happen  to  have  none  at  all  ; 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 5 

but  you  have  no  money  whatever,  and  I  happen  to 
have  some.  Suppose  we  were  to  enact  Florian  in  prose, 
suppose  we  were  to  realise  the  fable  of  the  Blind  and 
the  Halt.  Let  us  go  into  partnership  and  open  a 
boarding-school.  Each  will  bring  his  own  capital  to 
the  concern — you,  your  intelligence  I  my  money,  and 
we'll  share  the  profits.  The  offer  was  eagerly  ac- 
cepted, and  the  St- Victor  boarding  school  opened  to 
the  delight  of  the  young  professor,  who  found  himself 
at  the  head  of  an  important  establishment.  Never- 
theless, the  purchase  of  the  furniture  and  the  house 
f  had  run  away  with  a  great  deal  of  money,  an- 
other partner  had  to  be  called  in,  and  as  a  la*t  pay- 
ment, a  bill  of  45,000  francs  at  six  months  had  to  be 
given.  There  were*  two  signatories  to  it,  though,  in 
reality,  only  one  was  responsible,  and  Goubaux  was 
highly  amused  at  having  to  give  his  signature  ;  he 
felt  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the  idea  that  his 
name  wa-  supposed  to  be  worth  45,000  francs,  it  gave 
him  an  air  of  commercial  importance  which  flattered 
his  sense  of  dignity. 

the  end  of  the  six  months,  on  the  eve  of  the  bill 

becoming  due,   lv  >ry  disappeared   and  the 

young  fellow  had  to  face  that  enormous  debt,  without 

•my  to  meet  it.      I  lis  state  of  mind  may  easi1 

ined.  though  he  himself  failed  to  grasp  at    first 

it  of  his  misfortune,  for  these  45,000  fr,; 
the   bane  of  his   whole   after    life.      A    d 
45,OOO    fr  es     not     seem    very   formidable;    in 


1 6  Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections 

reality,  it  may  mean  a  burden  of  two,  three  or  four- 
hundred  thousand  francs;  it  is  an  unholy  pact  with 
usury  ;  I  have  known  Goubaux  to  borrow  money  at 
1 8  per  cent  It  means  days  and  prodigious  mental 
efforts  spent  in  renewing  a  bill,  it  means  a  superior 
intellect,  intended  for  better  things,  draining  its  ener- 
gies in  order  to  exorcise  the  law  official  armed  with 
a  stamped  document,  in  order  to  escape  from  some 
brutal  threat,  in  order  to  substitute  one  creditor  for 
another;  it  means  a  constant  and  ever  increasing 
terror  at  the  approach  of  the  last  day  of  the  month, 
it  means  the  necessity  of  having  to  break  one's 
promise  a  score  of  times;  it  means  constant  re- 
proaches from  some  quarter  or  other,  sleepless  nights, 
desperate  combinations,  it  means,  in  one  word,  the 
worst  and  most  horrible  slavery — the  servitude  of  debt. 
No  doubt,  Goubaux  might,  like  many  others  and 
with  greater  justification,  have  filed  his  petition,  for 
he  was  being  punished  while  perfectly  innocent  But 
he  was  five-and-twenty,  chivalrous  and  honourable  to 
a  degree;  he  felt  confident  of  his  strength  and  intelli- 
gence and  he  had  signed  his  name.  Hence,  he  took 
an  oath  to  himself  that  he  would  pay  and  pay  he  did, 
but  it  took  him  forty-four  years  to  pay  those  45,000 
francs,  and  when  he  died  the  last  instalment  of  the 
debt  had  only  been  discharged  a  few  weeks. 

The  first  crisis  in  that  long  struggle  was  terrible. 
One  day  he  thought  himself  lost;  he  had  to  pay 
12,000  francs  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours,  and 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 7 

he  had    not   a   louis   towards   them.      That   terrible 
word  bankruptcy,  the  very  sound  of  which  rent  his 
heart  and   made  his  lips  grow  pale,  he  would  have 
to  utter  it.     He  had  taken  refuge  with  some  of  his 
relations    in    a   room    on    a    fifth   story ;    they   were 
simply   dissolved    in    tears,   and    mad    with    despair. 
He   alone   did    not    despair ;  he   was    still    devising 
means  to  avert  the  crisis.     At  that  very  moment  a 
carriage   passing  below   shook    the  windows    of  the 
poorly    furnished    apartment.      ' Oh,   those    carriage 
>le,   those    rich   egotists/   exclaims    one    of    the 
company,   '  and    to   think   that   to   the   man  who  is 
(1   in    that    carriage   those    12,000   francs   would 
be  a  mere  nothing,  and  yet,  if  we  were  to  ask  him 
or  his  like  to  lend  them  to  us,  they  would  not  lend 
:oo  francs.'     At  these  words,  Goubaux  looks  up. 
Some  one  was  preferring  a  charge  against  mankind 
in    general,    and   that    seemed    an    injustice   to  him. 
1  \Yhy  should  you  censure  that  rich  man  who  happens 
>o  passing  below,  and  whom  you  do  not  know  ? ' 
he  replies.     *  How  do  you   know  but  that  he  might 
help   me  if  he  knew  of  my  trouble?'     'That  is  ex- 
actly like  you  and  your  unbearable  optimism,'  is  the 
'  My  optimism,  as  you  choose  to  call  it,  is 
«»nly  so  much  equity  or  sound  sense.'     'Sound  sense, 
you  say.     You  have    applied  to  a   score  of  people, 
y  one  of  whom  has  refused  you.'     'They  could 
help   me.'     'Well,  the  one  who  drove  by  in    his 
'age  could  help  you,  just  go  and  ask  him  to  do 

YM|..     II  l; 


1 8  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

so,  and  see  what  he'll  say.'  'Very  well,'  exclaims 
Goubaux,  '  I'll  go,  if  not  to  him ;  at  anyrate,  to 
someone  who  is  as  rich  as  he,  and  whom  I  know 
no  more  than  I  know  him,  and  who  will  not  refuse 
me.'  '  You  are  mad.'  '  We'll  see  about  that' 

With  which  he  rushes  home,  snatches  up  a  pen  and 
writes.  To  whom,  do  you  think  ?  To  M.  Laffitte 
whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  to  whom  he  tells  in  a 
few  words  ....  But  I  had  better  give  the  letter 
verbatim — 

*  MONSIEUR,— I  am  five-and-twenty,  the  father  of  three  children. 
I  am  an  honest  and  honourable  man  and  people  have  told  me  that  I  am 
not  without  talent.  My  spotless  name  has  been  used  as  a  means  of 
speculation,  to  found  an  establishment.  I  am  being  crushed  by  a  debt 
of  twelve  thousand  francs  and  in  three  days  I'll  stand  disgraced  before 
the  world.  When  all  appeal  to  one's  fellow  men  has  been  in  vain,  one 
generally  appeals  to  Providence,  I  appeal  to  you.  M.  Delanneau  who 
has  as  it  were  adopted  me,  will  tell  you  that  a  favour  solicited  so  frankly 
may  be  granted  with  confidence.  It  is  the  honourable  poor  man  who 
appeals  to  the  honourable  rich  man. 

'  My  fate  depends  on  you.  I  am  awaiting  your  answer  in  your  ante- 
chamber. My  family  is  waiting  some  distance  from  here.  Have  I  pre- 
sumed too  far  ? 

'  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  etc., 

'P.  GOUBAUX.' 

M.  Laffitte  told  the  servant  to  show  him  in  and  care- 
fully looked  at  his  visitor  whose  letter  had  impressed 
him.  The  unmistakable  honesty  of  Goubaux's  face 
impressed  him  still  more,  and  five  minutes  later  the 
principal  of  the  boarding  school  was  saved  for  the 
time  being. 

Only  for  the  time  being,  next  day  the  struggle  had 
to  be  begun  afresh,  for,  first  of  all,  he  had  to  pay 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  19 

M.  Laffitte.  Next  day,  other  debts,  becoming  urgent 
in  their  turn,  began  to  worry  him  like  the  first,  next 
morning,  in  short,  he  had  to  take  up  once  more  the 
burden  of  the  Saint-Victor  Institute  which  had  to  be 
kept  going,  a  terrible  burden,  especially  to  him. 
Goubaux  had  all  the  grand  qualities  of  the  professor. 
Science,  a  natural  talent  for  teaching,  a  fondness  for 
children,  the  art  of  managing  them  ;  he  was  a  match- 
less teacher,  unfortunately  for  him,  there  never  was  a 
more  execrable  *  Marchand  de  Soupe.'  I  am  obliged 
to  employ  the  vulgar  expression,  for  which  there  is 
no  synonym*  Both  his  shortcomings  and  his  good 
qualities  rendered  him  unfit  for  such  a  part,  for  it 
requires  three  indispensable  gifts,  namely,  1st  the 
spirit  of  order ;  2nd  economy  ;  3rd  authority.  Gou- 
baux was  too  embarrassed  in  circumstances  to  be 
careful  ;  he  was  too  generous  to  be  economical ;  he 

too  harrassed  by  impending  bills  to  be  master  in 
his  own  house.  A  sad  but  nevertheless  charming 
story  will  illustrate  that  struggle  against  his  terrible 
servitude  from  which  he  managed  to  extricate  him- 
self, as  usual  by  his  own  seductive  powers.  One  day 

•f  his  pupils  enter  his  private  room,  crying  both 
with  anger  and  pain.  One  of  the  masters  had  given 
them  a  cruel  thrashing.  Goubaux,  beside  himself  with 

.nation,  asks  for  his  name,  in  order  to  dismiss  him 

*  The  term  is  applied  by  the  French  lad  to  the  principal  of  a  board- 
ing school  irrespective  of  the  latter's  liberal  com- 
i:it,  just  as  the  term                     1  de  SommeiP  is  applied  by  the 
workman  to  his  landlord. 


2O  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

ignominiously  there  and  then.  They  tell  him  that  it 
is  the  assistant  head-master,  at  which  Goubaux  turns 
very  pale  and  remains  silent  for  a  moment  or  so. 
4  All  right,'  he  says  at  last  in  a  subdued  tone  which 
betrays  both  his  anger  and  confusion  ;  '  all  right,  go 
back  to  the  schoolroom,  I  will  speak  to  him.' 

Why  this  change  of  tone,  why  this  sudden  subsid- 
ence, why  this  confusion  ?  Why?  Because  that  man 
was  his  creditor,  who  had  lent  him  a  considerable 
sum  of  money  at  a  critical  moment  and  on  the  con- 
dition of  entering  the  establishment  as  assistant 
head-master.  And  Goubaux  had  no  right  to  dismiss 
him.  Goubaux  was  compelled  to  stifle  his  indigna- 
tion, his  kindness,  his  feeling  of  justice,  his  feeling  of 
duty.  He  was  compelled  to  manage  with  fair  words 
this  savage  brute  who  was  not  only  cruel  but  incap- 
able besides.  One  may  easily  imagine  Goubaux's 
feelings  under  the  circumstances. 

But  let  us  inquire  for  a  moment  what  would  have 
been  the  result  of  a  similar  situation  in  another  insti- 
tution of  the  same  kind  ?  What  would  have  been 
the  feelings,  the  behaviour  of  the  two  pupils  and  their 
fellows  face  to  face  with  this  denial  of  justice  ?  A 
violent  irritation,  a  feeling  of  indignation  against  the 
head  of  the  establishment,  whom  they  would  have 
accused  of  cruelty  and  of  weakness.  What  did  Gou- 
baux's pupils  do  ?  They  simply  pitied  him.  One  of 
them  who  knew  the  position  of  affairs,  who  was  aware 
of  his  financial  difficulties  told  the  others,  and  their 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  2  i 

anger  changed  into  commiseration,  they  became  if 
possible,  more  affectionate  towards  him.  *  Poor  man,1 
they  said,  *  how  he  must  suffer  at  not  being  able  to 
protect  us,  how  it  must  grieve  him  to  be  able  only  to 
defend  us  partly.'  This  seems  so  utterly  incredible, 
that  I  should  have  hesitated  to  repeat  the  words, 
were  I  not  in  a  position  to  name  my  informant.  I 
have  them  from  the  lips  of  one  of  Goubaux's  old 
pupils,  from  one  of  the  two  victims  of  the  assistant 
head-master's  brutality,  from  one  of  our  most  brilliant 
colleagues,  M.  Edmond  Cottinet,  who  not  only  told 
me  the  fact,  but  added  some  characteristic  details. 

'  Surely,'  he  said,  '  the  Saint-Victor  establishment 
left  much  to  desire,  the  food  was  indifferent,  order  and 
discipline  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence,  the 
masters  were  often  harsh  and  unjust,  but  M.  Goubaux 
was  there  and  his  presence  made  up  for  everything. 
\\uuld  you  believe,  that  on  one  occasion  when  my 
mother,  annoyed  at  something  that  had  happened  at 
chool,  wanted  to  take  me  away,  I  positively  re- 
1  to  be  taken.  "  It  would  grieve  M.  Goubaux,"  I 
answered.  Not  once,  but  a  hundred  times,  when  our 
discontent  was  at  its  highest  and  we  were  perfectly 
ripe  for  resistance,  our  anger  vanished  at  the  mere 
si^ht  of  his  coming  into  the  room  to  take  the  place  of 
the  ordinary  master.  He  spoke  so  well  and  had  such 
a  fine  voice.  Everything  he  said  went  straigh 

ut   and    mind.     He   could    mak  v  or 

laugh  or  think  just  as  he  liked.     And  when  he  was 


22  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

gone,  the  memory  of  that  hour  was  sufficient  to  make 
us  put  up  cheerfully  for  a  week  with  bad  food  and 
bad  masters.  Moreover,  we  were  very  proud  of  his 
success  as  a  playwright.  At  the  premieres  of  his 
pieces,  there  were  always  half-a-dozen  of  us  on  the 
field  of  battle,  applauding  frantically.  His  triumphs 
were  virtually  our  own.  In  short,  to  this  day,  after 
a  lapse  of  forty  years,  it  does  me  good  to  talk  of  M. 
Goubaux,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  story  which  will  still 
further  prove  the  spell  he  exercised  over  everyone. 
His  eldest  daughter  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty, 
but  she  had  no  marriage  portion.  A  distinguished 
professor,  and  very  well  off  to  boot,  asked  for  her 
hand.  Why  ?  Of  course  you  would  say  because  he 
cared  for  her.  That  was  no  doubt  one  of  the  reasons  ; 
but  the  principal  reason  was  his  admiration  for  Gou- 
baux. He  married  the  daughter  for  the  pleasure  of 
calling  M.  Goubaux  "  father-in-law."  ' 

M.  Cottinet's  words  have  opportunely  reminded  me 
of  Goubaux's  other  profession,  of  his  second  self 
which  agreed  so  well  with  his  first.  I  used  to  call 
him  jocularly  '  Maitre  Jacques.'  *  He  often  began 
the  scene  of  a  drama  on  a  sheet  of  paper  headed 
'  Pension  Saint-Victor ' ;  he  now  and  then  replied 
to  a  letter  connected  with  his  scholastic  duties  while 
leaning  against  a  wing,  and  his  author's  fees  fre- 


*  The  French  equivalent  for  our  *  Jack  of  all  trades,'  though  the  de- 
signation in  French  does  not  necessarily  imply  that  the  person  thus 
designated  is  '  master  of  none.' — TR. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  23 

quently  went  to  replenish  the  empty  exchequer  of  the 
schoolmaster.  To  whom  did  he  owe  the  playwright's 
talent?  To  one  of  those  accidents  of  which  hi> 
istence  was  so  full  and  which  were  at  the  same  time 
the  work  of  Providence  and  of  his  own.  Providence 
afforded  him  the  opportunity,  he  embraced  it. 

Ill 

Goubaux  loved  almost  everything,  understood 
even-thing,  and  felt  an  interest  in  everything ;  hence 
he  felt  an  interest  in  the  drama  just  as  he  felt  an 
interest  in  everything  else ;  I  might  say  a  greater 
interest  than  he  felt  in  anything  else.  A  man  gifted 
with  a  fertile  imagination  like  his  has  necessarily  a 
strong  liking  for  works  of  fiction.  One  day  when 
dining  with  some  friends,  the  conversation  turned 
on  the  drama.  An  animated  discussion  ensued 
about  the  unities  of  time  and  place.  One  of  the 
.\\  uncompromising  classicist,  contended  that 
the  principle  of  confining  the  action  of  a  stage  play 
to  a  period  of  twenty-four  hours  was  not  due  to  the 
mere  whim  of  one  literary  legislator,  that  compliance 
with  this  salutary  injunction  was  one  of  the  foremost 
conditions  of  success.  '  A  piece,  the  action  of  which 
would  extend  over  a  twelvemonth  could  not  possibly 
have  any  inti 

'No  interest,'  replied  Goubaux  with  that  dash  and 
brilliancy  which  invested  his  conversation  with  such 
a  charm,  'no  interest  1.  it  would  extend 


24  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

a   twelvemonth  ?     Why,  if  it    extended   over   thirty 
twelvemonths  it  would  be  all  the  more  interesting/ 

'  Ha,  ha,  over  thirty  years/  exclaimed  his  inter- 
locutor, '  it  would  be  as  Boileau  says — 

'  "  Enfant  au  premier  acte  et  barbon  au  dernier.'" 

'  Exactly ;  a  child  in  the  first  act,  and  an  old  man 
in  the  last.  That's  exactly  where  the  interest  would 
lie,  in  the  change  time  works  in  all  things  human  ; 
in  men's  fortunes,  in  men's  characters,  in  men's  faces 
and  figures  ;  nay,  even  in  men's  souls,  in  the  gradual 
and  quasi  fatal  evolution  of  the  good  and  evil 
passions.' 

1  The  theory  sounds  tempting  enough ;  what  about 
the  practice  ? ' 

1  The  practice,'  repeated  the  playwright  that  was  to 
be,  getting  on  his  mettle  by  being  contradicted,  '  I'll 
wager  to  write  a  piece  the  action  of  which  will  ex- 
tend over  thirty  years  and  which  will  make  you 
shudder  and  cry.' 

'  You  write  a  piece.  But  you  have  never  written  a 
piece  in  your  life.' 

'  All  the  more  reason  to  make  a  beginning.'  And 
a  few  months  afterwards  he  read  them  the  scenario 
of  what  became  the  most  popular  drama  of  the 
period.  *  Trente  ans  ou  la  vie  d'un  Joueur.*  He  had 
written  the  piece  as  he  would  have  done  anything 
else,  because  the  opportunity  for  doing  it  presented 

*  The  version  best  known  in  England  is  '  Rouge  et  Noir '  played  by 
the  late  M.  Fechter  during  his  lesseeship  of  the  Lyceum  Theatre. — TK. 


Years  of  Recollections 

itself.  The  moment  he  was  in  need  of  a  certain 
talent,  he  had  it,  and  there  was  an  end  of  the 
thing. 

When  the  piece  was  finished,  he  had  to  find  a 
manager  to  play  it.  He  was  told  to  solicit  the  col- 
laboration of  Victor  Ducange,  one  of  the  most  famous 
melodramatists  of  the  time.  One  morning,  therefore, 
he  calls  upon  the  man,  who  nodded  complacently, 
and  with  a  smile  when  they  addressed  him  as  the 
Corneille  of  the  Boulevards.  'The  work  shows  the 
hand  of  a  novice,'  says  Ducange,  after  having  heard 
the  play,  but  there  are  a  good  many  interesting  things 
in  it.  What  it  really  wants  is  a  prologue,  and  I'll 
look  to  that.  It  is  not  enough,  young  man,  to  be  able 
to  cook  a  good  dinner,  one  must  also  know  how  to 
lay  the  cloth.' 

A  few  days  later  Victor  Ducange  showed  the  pro- 
logue to  Goubaux,  who  as  a  university  man  and 
professor  could  not  help  noticing  sundry  startling 
liberties  the  author  had  taken  with  grammar  and 
syntax.  He  ventured  to  point  them  out  in  a  timid 

1  My  dear  monsieur,  the  fact  that  it  is  I  who  have 
written  this  must  and  will  suffice.'  Goubaux  did  not 
say  another  word. 

The    first    performance    produced    a    tremendous 

t.     All  the  former  rules  of  dramatic  composition 

•>ver  like  the  walls  of  Jericho  at  the  sound  of 

trumpet.      A    new   road   had   been   opened  and 


26  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

Goubaux,  whose  success  had  been,  as  it  were,  a  re- 
velation to  himself,  attempted  a  further  step  on 
it. 

The  dramatist's  talent  is  a  very  special  and  peculiar 
gift.  It  is  not  necessarily  related  to  any  other  intel- 
lectual faculty.  A  man  may  have  a  great  deal  of  wit 
and  cleverness,  he  may  be  a  capital  scholar  and  write 
well,  and  yet  be  absolutely  incapable  of  writing  a 
piece.  I  have  seen  men  of  great  parts,  cultured  men  of 
letters  bring  me  comedies  and  dramas  which  seemed 
to  have  been  written  by  a  child.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  have  had  submitted  to  me,  by  people  of  very  aver- 
age intellect,  stage  plays  in  which  there  was  a  name- 
less something  which  could  not  have  been  replaced 
by  no  matter  what,  which  was  not  acquired,  of  which 
they  would  never  get  rid  again  and  which  unmistake- 
ably  stamped  them  as  dramatic  authors.  In  one  word 
it  was  the  gift,  and  Goubaux  had  that  gift  to  a 
supreme  degree.  With  him  everything  was  inborn, 
even  skill ;  everything  was  spontaneous,  even  experi- 
ence. Furthermore,  seeing  that  he  was  a  thinker  as 
well  as  a  dramatist,  his  taste  led  him  to  found  his 
dramas  on  a  character  or  on  a  passion  rather  than  on 
a  mere  fact.  After  having  written  '  Trente  ans  ou  la 
vie  d'un  Joueur,'  he  conceived  the  idea  of  portraying 
a  life  swayed  by  ambition — *  Richard  Darlington's.' 
This  time,  however,  he  invited  the  co-operation  of  a 
real  master  of  dramatic  art — Alexandre  Dumas.  The 
share  of  each  in  that  joint  work  has  been  set  forth  in 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  27 

his  'Memoires'  by  Alexandra  Dumas  himself  with 
delightful  sincerity  and  good-nature. 

To  Goubaux  belongs  the  primary  and  fundamental 
idea,  the  invention  of  the  principal  character,  the  very 
original  scene  of  the  elections,  the  dramatic  interview 
between  the  King  and  Richard.  To  Dumas  belongs 
the  prologue,  a  goodly  number  of  the  most  dramatic 
situations  and  the  denouement. 

That  very  denouement  gave  the  collaborateurs  a 
good  deal  of  trouble.  The  young  wife  of  Richard 
had  to  disappear,  but  how?  One  morning,  Goubaux, 
who  was  cudgelling  his  brains  all  the  while,  goes  to 
Dumas,  he  rings,  enters  the  room;  Dumas  is  still  in 
bed,  but  the  moment  he  catches  sight  of  Goubaux,  he 
stands  up  in  his  bed,  his  long  black  legs  showing 
under  his  white  shirt  He  frantically  waves  his 
hands  and  thunders,  '  My  boy,  I  chuck  her  out  of  the 
window,  I  chuck  her  out  of  the  window.'  'Her'  was 
Richard's  wife,  Jenny.*  Those  who  were  at  the  first 
•nuance  still  recollect  the  thrill  of  horror  and 
terror  when  Richard  with  livid  face,  came  back  to  the 
balcony  whence  he  had  flung  his  wife  into  the  yawn- 
ing chasm.  True,  it  was  Frederic  Lemaitiv  who 
played  Richard.  The  stage  trick  by  which  he 
rendered  that  reappearance  on  the  balcony  more 
terrible  still,  was  not  generally  known  in  those  days 
and  few  of  the  public  suspected  it.  It  was  carried 

•   I  have  purposely  made  use  of  the  word  chuck  instead  of  'fling,' 

h  even  the  former  scarcely  renders  the  vigorous  but  not  \ 
fined  expression  of  Dumas.— TK. 


28  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

out  by  means  of  an  apparatus  in  the  wings  which 
threw  a  powerful  ray  of  coloured  light  on  his 
face  and  made  it  look  positively  green.  To  com- 
plete the  effect  he  had  arranged  with  the  actress 
who  enacted  the  part  of  Jenny  that,  in  rush- 
ing away  from  him  towards  the  balcony,  she  would 
drop  the  muslin  scarf  she  had  round  her  head 
and  shoulders.  The  wrap  was,  as  it  were,  staring 
him  in  the  face  when  he  stepped  from  the  balcony  on 
to  the  stage  ;  it  was  the  spectre  of  his  wife.  Any  one 
else  would  have  shuddered  or  started  back,  or  have 
resorted  to  an  equally  hackneyed  device.  He  simply 
bounded  towards  it  and  picked  it  up  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  crammed  it  into  his  pocket  like  a  handker- 
chief, and  his  new  father-in-law  knocking  at  the  door 
at  the  same  moment  he  went  to  open  it  with  that 
insolent,  devil-may-care  ease  of  which  he  seems  to 
have  had  the  exclusive  secret,  while  a  bit  of  the  white 
material  kept  peeping  from  his  pocket  and  flapping 
against  his  coat.  It  was  simply  ghastly.  Those  were 
the  moments  that  revealed  one  of  the  most  striking 
traits  of  Frederic  Lemaitre's  talent:  namely,  the  art 
of '  individualising '  a  scene  and  to  double  its  effect  by 
some  picturesque  detail.  Those  who  have  seen  him 
in  it  will  not  easily  forget  the  second  act  of  '  La  Vie 
d'un  Joueur '  when  he  wishes  to  obtain  from  his  wife 
the  signature  which  means  her  ruin ;  the  way  he 
watched  Mme.  Dorval  while  she  was  hesitating  to 
give  it;  and  his  gloating,  half-muttered  cry  of  '  She  is 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  29 

going  to  sign,'  while  she  took  up  the  pen.  \Yhat 
after  all,  had  he  added  to  the  text?  A  gesture, 
nothing  more.  He  simply  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  He 
gave  the  scene  its  tragic  effect  by  dragging  it  down 
to  the  *  ruffian's  '  level. 

But  the  piece  in  which  that  talent  verged  on  the 
sublime  was  'Les  Mysteres  de  Paris.'  Eugene  Sue 
had  asked  Goubaux  to  assist  him  in  dramatising 
his  novel.  Frederic  Lemaitre  played  Jacques 
I 'errand,  the  notary,  the  debauchee  notary,  the  thief 
who  is  looked  upon  as  a  saint  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  scene  of  the  second  act  was  laid  in  his  office.  A 
poor  ruined  manufacturer  came  to  solicit  his  aid  ;  the 
office  was  full  of  people,  the  clerks  were  all  at  their 
desks.  Jacques  Ferrand  was  to  give  that  unhappy 
and  deserving  petitioner  a  note  of  500  francs.  The 
authors  felt  very  pleased  at  having  introduced 
the  incident  of  that  well-bestowed  gift,  but  Frederic 
himself,  in  the  course  of  the  rehearsals,  seemed 
fidgetty  and  dissatisfied  with  the  idea. 

'What's  the  matter?  That  trait  of  hypocritical 
generosity  does  not  seem  to  strike  you  as  true  and 
profound?'  asked  Goubaux. 

'  It's  neither  sufficiently  hypocritical  nor  sufficiently 

profound,' was  the  brusque  reply.     'Jacqi:  .md's 

benevolence  does,  after  all,  not  cost  him  very  much. 

Then-  is  not  much  merit   in  500  francs  when 

has  merely  to  take  them  out  of  on  ibox. 

•it   often    borrows   in   order   to  give,  I  will 


3O  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

not  have  anything  to  do  with  your  note  of  500 
francs.' 

'  In  that  case  what  shall  we  do  and  what  will  you 
do?' 

*  This  is  how  I  would  manage  it  if  I  were  you. 
When  the  poor  fellow  tells  me  of  his  misfortunes,  I'll 
run  to  my  cashbox  to  get  the  money  for  which  he 
asks  me.  But  my  cashbox  is  being  constantly  drained 
by  my  donations  and  only  contains  three  hundred 
francs  in  notes.  I'll  make  up  the  sum  with  sixty 
francs  in  five  franc  pieces,  I'll  even  add  some  small 
change,  and  finally  finding  that  I  am  still  short,  borrow 
the  rest  from  my  principal  clerk.  That's  the  thing  to 
do,  for  the  affair  is  sure  to  be  bruited  about  and  make 
a  noise  in  the  quarter.  In  that  way  I  beat  Saint- 
Martin,  seeing  that  I  take  even  my  neighbour's  cloak 
to  clothe  the  poor.  There  is  no  doubt  about  my 
being  a  Saint  after  that.' 

In  the  fourth  act  he  tried  to  introduce  an  effect  of 
a  similar  kind,  but  this  time  the  authors  did  not  think 
it  advisable  to  satisfy  him.  It  was  where  Cicely,  the 
mulatto  girl,  for  whom  he  has  conceived  a  mad 
passion,  enters  his  room.  At  the  sight  of  her,  the 
instincts  of  the  brutal  sensualist  assert  their  sway  and 
lead  to  a  scene  between  him  and  the  girl  in  which 
entreaties,  threats,  tears,  protestations  of  love  follow 
one  another  in  rapid  succession.  During  one  of  the 
final  rehearsals,  Frederic  was  perambulating  the 
stage  like  a  wild  beast  in  his  cage. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  3 1 

1  What  are  you  looking  for  now  ? '  asked  Sue 
laughing.  , 

'  Is  there  no  means  of  putting  a  truss  of  straw  in 
one  of  the  corners,  and  so  arouse  a  fear  in  the  mind 
of  the  public  that  I  might  fling  her  down  ? '  he 
answered. 

Frederic  had  to  do  without  his  truss  of  straw,  he 
proved  none  the  less  terrible  in  the  delineation  of 
Jacques  Ferrand's  brutal  sensuality.  On  the  first 
night  he  was  waiting  for  his  cue  at  the  wings,  just 
before  that  identical  scene,  when  he  suddenly  turned 
to  Goubaux  who  was  standing  by  his  side,  and  in  a 
tone  and  accents  which  it  would  be  impossible  to 
describe,  said,  '  And  now,  I  am  going  to  give  them  a 
taste  of  my  quality.' 

People  have  often  compared  Frederic  Lemaitre  to 
Talma.  I  once  asked  Goubaux  who  had  known  the 
latter  very  well  whether  the  comparison  was  justified 
in  any  way,  and  he  replied  in  the  affirmative,  '  for/ 
said  he,  '  the  same  word — the  word  "  genius  " — best 
describes  both  their  talent.'  Were  they  equal  to  one 
another?  Perhaps,  in  virtue  of  the  very  difference 
between  them.  Talma  was  the  god  of  tragedy  and 
(Inn:  leric  was  the  demon  of  them.  When 

Talma   spoke  about  his   art,   his  features  assumed   a 
kind    of  pensive  though    impassioned    e  <m  of 

mcholy  which  was  still   further  increased  by  his 
and   in  \eiy   sentence   of  his 

with    a    nameless   something  both  poetical  and  pro- 


32  A7.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

found.  Each  of  his  remarks  showed  the  incessant 
pursuit  of  the  ideal  and  the  realistic,  of  the  accuracy 
of  tone  and  the  beauty  of  sound.  The  rhythm  of  the 
line  was  one  of  his  constant  preoccupations.  One 
day  he  was  talking  to  a  friend  about  the  two  lines  of 
Hamlet  to  his  mother. 

'  Votre  crime  est  horrible,  execrable,  odieux, 
Mais  il  n'est  pas  plus  grand  que  la  bonte  des  dieux  !  '* 

'  I  am  pretty  sure,'  he  said,  *  of  never  missing  the 
effect  of  these  two  lines.  I  have  put  notes  to  them  ; 
the  first  line  is  an  ascending  scale,  the  second  a 
descending  scale.' 

Fre"de"ric  Lemaitre  never  troubled  about  that  kind 
of  thing,  and  joining  Goubaux's  recollections  to  my 
own  I  feel  tempted  to  say  that  Frederic  was  essenti- 
ally an  artist  of  the  earth  earthly.  What  he  invari- 
ably looked  for  was  the  accent,  truth,  passion  and 
force.  Added  to  this,  he  had  some  very  grave  and 
almost  unbearable  defects,  he  droned,  and  whined  and 
ranted,  when  he  became  pathetic  he  became  almost 
ridiculous,  but  all  this  was  redeemed  by  one  immense 
quality,  the  like  of  which  I  have  never  met  with  in 
any  actor,  namely,  power.  No  one  ever  '  filled '  the 
stage,  as  he  did.  Then  there  was  Jiis  boldness  of 
gesture,  of  attitude,  not  to  mention  his  bursts  of  anger 
and  indignation.  His  faculty  for  transformation  was 

*  This,  I  believe,  is  Ducis'  translation  of  the  two  lines — 

'  Confess  yourself  to  heaven  ; 
Repent  what's  past,  avoid  what  is  to  come.' — TR. 


.'r   Years  of  Recollections  33 

ty  well  unique.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  he 
was  equally  magnificent  in  the  part  of  Don  Cesar  de 
Bazan  and  in  that  of  Ruy-Blas.  But  the  most  striking 
coincidence  was  that  his  features  offered  the  same 
antithesis  as  his  talent.  The  grandiose  and  the 
commonplace  were  inextricably  mixed.  Magnificent 

,  a  forehead  beaming  with  intelligence  and  a  nose 
which  made  you  wonder  how  it  could  have  come 
there.  A  nose  starting  as  a  Greek  one  and  ending  up 
like  a  trumpet ;  a  mobile,  contractile  mouth,  equally 
capable  of  expressing  contempt  and  anger,  with  a 
lower  lip  the  corners  of  which  were  absolutely 
commonplace  and  vulgar.  Talma,  away  from  the 
theatre  was  simplicity  and  kindliness  itself;  Frederic 
was  always  attudinising,  always  acting  ;  at  times  he 

^rgered  like  a  swashbuckler,  at  others  he  swayed 
about  like  a  Bohemian ;  in  short,  he  was  the 
1  mummer '  in  everything  he  did,  in  every  word  he- 
uttered.  When  he  came  to  Goubaux's  school  to  see 

sons,  his  arrival  invariably  caused  a  sensation. 
With  his  hat  'stuck'  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
striking  the  steps  with  his  cane  as  he  went,  he  inter- 
pellated the  servants  at  the  top  of  his  voice  without 
the  least  regard  for  the  dignity  of  the  place.  '  You'll 
tell  M.  Goubaux  that  there  will  be  no  rehearsal 
to-da  :,  with  all  this,  some  amazing  moments  of 

grandeur  and  self-respect.  Casimir  Delavi^ne  had 
entrusted  to  him  the  principal  part  in  '  Marino 
iy  he  comes  to  i  J  in  a  semi- 

Vul..     II 


34  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

state  of  intoxication.  The  indignant  author  snatches 
the  part  from  his  hands,  saying,  '  You'll  not  enact 
my  piece,  monsieur.'  His  eyes  flashing  with  anger, 
he  rushes  towards  the  poet  as  if  to  strike  him  to  the 
earth.  In  fact,  one  blow  from  him  would  have  been 
sufficient,  but  Fre"de"ric  stops  midway  and  in  a 
subdued  and  trembling  voice,  says,  *  Monsieur 
Delavigne,  I  thank  you  for  having  given  me  the 
opportunity  of  showing  you  to  what  degree  I  respect 
you.' 

IV 

My  digression  on  Frederic  Lemaitre  is  justified  by 
the  fact  of  his  having  been  indebted  to  Goubaux  for 
two  of  his  best  parts.  But  I  am  bound  to  remember 
that  in  reality  in  Goubaux's  life,  the  drama  was  only 
an  intermediate  occupation,  adding  something  to  his 
budget  and  to  his  fame,  but  for  all  that  an  inter- 
mediate occupation.  The  true  foundation  and  the 
dominant  interest  of  his  life  lay  in  that  Saint- Victor 
Institution  to  which  we  will  return  once  again  to  leave 
it  no  more,  for  it  is  there  that  we  shall  see  Goubaux 
accomplish  his  final  solvency  by  a  marvellous  stroke 
of  pluck  and  invention. 

Goubaux  had  with  regard  to  public  education  ideas, 
generally  accepted  to-day,  but  which  were  considered 
very  novel  and  daring  when  he  had  the  courage  to 
formulate  them  for  the  first  time.  What  struck  him 
most  forcibly  was  the  want  of  sympathy  between  the 


.y   Years  of  Recollections  35 

education  provided  by  the  State  and  the  spirit  of 
modern  society.  On  the  one  side  he  beheld  society 
tending  more  and  more  towards  industry,  commerce, 
agriculture,  applied  sciences.  He  heard  fathers  ex- 
a  wish  for  a  professional  education  for  their  sons 
and  demand  special  teaching  to  that  effect ;  and  at  the 
same  time  he  was  aware  that  collegiate  or  university 
education  in  no  way  supplied  that  want  Literature 
was  its  sole  object,  there  was  no  professional  training. 
This  anomaly  had  the  effect  of  shocking  a  mind 
which  was  so  essentially  modern  as  Goubaux's ;  that 
want  worried  him,  he  had  felt  for  many  years  that 
something  new  should  be  attempted  in  that  direction, 
but  how  was  he  to  attain  his  aim?  There  were 
numberless  obstacles  in  his  way  ;  first,  his  own  insti- 
tution, the  pupils  at  which  attended  the  courses  at  the 
I  low  was  he  to  introduce  the  new  system  of 
education  in  that  establishment  without  ruining  it, 
and  how  was  he  to  prevent  its  ruin?  Furthermore, 
how  was  he  to  overcome  the  preliminary  and  in- 
superable difficulties?  Would  not  the  University 
just  this  innovation?  Would  the 
Minister  of  Public  Instruction  sanction  it?  In  those 

vere  no  ministers  like   M.  Jules   Simon 
and  M.  Victor  Duruy  ;  and  M.  Villemain  had  said  to 

;ich   college  in   France!  not  whi!<-    1 
Moreover,    did     not     the    air  id    with 

number    of  -:it    and 

intellects  who  averred  that  to  deprive  education  of 


36  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

the  solid   and    moral    basis  of  classical   tuition    was 
tantamount  to  decapitating  the  intellect.     According 
to  them  it  was  simply  nothing  less  than  materialising 
the   age,   than    making   the   earning   of   money    the 
sole  aim  of  life.     To  all  of  which  objections,  Goubaux, 
with  the  authority  acquired  by  long  experience,  re- 
plied :    '  Why   should    that   system    of  education   be 
less   capable  of  elevating  the   mind  and  the  heart? 
Are  we  to  take  it  that  the  Greek  and  Latin  works 
contain    all    the    heroic    examples,   the    lessons    of 
patriotism,    the    instances   of   strength    of  character, 
and    loftiness    of  soul  ?     Is   there    no    poetry   which 
brings  the  ideal  home  to  our  lives  and  to  our  souls 
outside  the  poetry  contained  in  the  works  of  Homer 
and  Virgil  ?      The  world  of  science  we  wish  to  throw 
open    to    young    minds,    that   world    which    means 
nothing    less   than   the   whole  of  the  earth  and   the 
heavens,  is  that  world  not  as  good,  as  a  means  of 
education,   as   the  study  of  some  speeches  by  Livy 
or  Tacitus?      Will  the  intelligent  contemplation   of 
the  grand  work  of  creation  and  of  all  the  conquests 
achieved  by  created  man  be  less  conducive  to  the 
knowledge   of  God   to   young   men    than    the   often 
uncertain    interpretation    of  the   remains   of  a   dead 
language  belonging  to  a  vanished   people,  and   will 
that  interpretation   make  better  men  of  them  than 
that  intelligent  contemplation  ?     In   short,   does   not 
the  study   of  France   herself,  of  her   language   and 
literature  deserve  to  stand  in  the  front  rank  of  public 


}  'cars  of  Recollections  37 

education  ?     \Vhy  then  should  there  not  be  French 
colleges  in  France  ? ' 

These  words  had  the  effect  of  impressing  a  goodly 
number  of  eminent  men,  but  he  was  challenged  to 
make  good  his  words  by  deeds.  From  that  moment 
his  plan  was  virtually  drawn  up,  in  order  to  carry  it 
out,  he  resorted  to  heroic  measures  :  heroism  is  often 
synonymous  with  wisdom.  His  establishment  held 
about  a  hundred  pupils  ;  he  dismissed  sixty,  namely, 
all  those  who  attended  the  collegiate  classes,  and  re- 
mained with  the  few  converts  to  the  new  method. 
Apparently  this  was  tantamount  to  committing 
suicide.  How  was  he  to  make  both  ends  meet  with 
forty  pupils  when  he  had  scarcely  been  able  to  do  so 
with  a  hundred  ?  The  position  was  all  the  more 
serious,  seeing  that  his  institution  did  not  belong  solely 
to  himself.  His  creditors  had  a  lien  on  it.  To  send 
away  half  of  his  pupils  was  to  deprive  them  of  half  of 
their  security.  It  was  not  a  question  of  asking  them 
for  a  delay  or  for  a  new  loan,  but  he  had  to  induce 
them  to  sacrifice  their  guarantee.  He  was  bound  to 
convert  them  to  his  ideas,  to  make  them  share  his 
hopes,  to  inspire  them  with  his  faith.  Well,  after  an 
hour's  conversation  they  were  not  only  won  over,  but 
convinced.  They  were  not  only  disarmed,  but  con- 
verted. Thanks  to  his  persuasive  and  spontaneous 
eloquence,  he  transformed  his  creditors  into  lenders. 
They  not  only  did  not  ask  him  for  money,  but  offered 
him  some.  People  who  have  twitted  the  ant  with  be- 


38  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

ing  a  spendthrift  vied  with  one  another  for  the  honour 
and  pleasure  of  affording  him  the  time  to  await  the 
successful  issue  of  his  idea.  But  this  honourable 
competition  to  befriend  him  and  this  material  assist- 
ance were  not  sufficient.  A  great  many  arrears  of 
debt  worried  and  hampered  him,  when,  one  morning, 
as  usual,  there  sprang  from  the  earth  or  descended 
from  the  sky  a  Deus  ex  viachina  who  intervened  at 
the  critical  moment  and  enabled  him  to  pursue  his 
onward  march.  Truly,  he  was,  as  usual  again,  in- 
debted in  a  great  measure  to  himself,  the  miracle  was 
simply  the  harvest  of  what  he  had  sown.  On  the 
loth  of  June  '1855,  I  received  the  following  letter 
from  him — 

1  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  have  met  with  one  of  those  pieces  of  good 
fortune  and  spent  an  hour  of  unalloyed  joy  such  as  I  have  rarely,  very 
rarely  had  in  my  life.  The  joy  was  occasioned  by  the  visit  of  one  of 
my  former  pupils  who  was  kind  enough  to  recollect  a  distant  past  and 
to  acknowledge  a  debt  to  which  I  had  never  given  a  moment's  thought. 
The  piece  of  good  fortune  consists  in  my  being  freed  for  a  twelvemonth 
from  all  care  and  anxiety.  Such  a  thing  has  not  happened  to  me  since 
1820  ;  my  dear  -friend  Gilbert,*  has  drawn  up  an  account  between  us 
the  elements  of  which  had  no  existence  save  in  his  own  affectionate 
remembrance  of  me,  because  I  never  considered  that  he  owed  me  a 
penny.  Yes,  Gilbert  brought  me  yesterday  six  thousand  francs.  It  is 
the  first  use  he  made  of  his  recently  acquired  wealth. 

'  However  unexpected  and  useful  this  timely  assistance  has  been  to 
me,  I  was  still  more  deeply  touched  by  the  act  itself  than  by  the  money, 
and  the  tears  which  welled  into  my  eyes  were  due  to  the  fact,  that, 
while  listening  to  Gilbert,  I  was  pleased  with  myself.  I  was  debating 
with  myself  whether  I  would  come  and  tell  you  the  story  personally, 
but  was  afraid  of  breaking  down  in  the  middle  of  it.  I  feel  more  sure 
of  myself  while  writing  than  while  talking. 

*  M.  Gilbert,  who  had  been  educated  gratuitously  by  Goubaux  had  just 
made  a  very  rich  and  creditable  match.  He  is  the  author  of  two  critical 
studies,  one  on  Vauvenargues,  the  other  on  Regnard,  both  of  which 
gained  the  award  of  the  Academic  Fran9aise. 


)  V  <  -s  of  Recollections  39 

1  Good-bye,  my  faithful  chum  of  1837,  my  faithful  supporter  from  the 
very  day  when  I  undertook  that  which  I  now  hope  to  accomplish  soon. 
A  cordial  shake  of  the  hand  for  you  and  a  kiss  for  your  wife  and 
daughter. 

'  GOUBAUX.' 


A  touching  letter  if  ever  there  was  one.  Neverthe- 
less it  wants  a  postcriptum.  The  name  of  Gilbert 
recalls  to  my  mind  another,  that  of  Alexandre  Dumas, 
the  younger,  who  was  also  a  pupil  of  Goubaux  a  little 
before  Gilbert.  One  day  the  rumour  spread  that  the 
elder  Dumas  had  been  wrecked  and  lost  his  life  off 
the  Sicilian  coast ;  Goubaux  sent  for  the  lad.  '  My 
dear  boy,'  he  said  to  him,  '  I  trust  that  this  is  a  false 
report,  but  if  it  be  true,  remember  that  this  house  is 
yours.  Heaven  preserve  me  from  pretending  to  be 
able  to  replace  your  father,  but  I'll  do  everything  in 
my  power  to  remind  you  of  him.'  And  this  happened 
about  1834,  />.,  at  the  moment  when  Goubaux  was 
most  cruelly  worried  for  money,  and  yet  he  did  not 
i  moment  hesitate  to  shoulder  that  new  burden. 
His  o\\n  misfortunes,  instead  of  wholly  engrossing 
him,  only  had  the  effect  of  making  him  more  sensitive 
to  misfortunes  which  were  not  his  own.  While  half- 
ruined,  he  still  thought  of  saving  others  from  ruin.  I 

iv    that     Dumas    followed    Gill' 

nple,      He  also  remembered  in  due  time  a  debt 

similar    to  that  of   Gilbert   and   which  Goubaux   had 

also    forgotten.      Thanks    to    all    those     instances    of 

1  in  spite  of  his  own  ity,  Goubaux 

hi  <>f  the  goal,  but  in  order  to  reach  it 


40  .V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

he  had  to  travel  a  last  bit  of  road  which  was  harder  to 
him  than  it  might  have  been  to  others. 

A  scheme  like  Goubaux's,  requires,  in  order  to 
succeed,  three  men:  an  inventor,  a  man  who  has 
the  gift  of  organisation,  and  a  good  administrator. 
Goubaux  was  an  inventor  of  the  first  water,  his 
faculty  for  organisation  was,  however,  very  second 
rate,  and  as  an  administrator  he  ranked  very  low 
indeed.  Luckily,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  charging 
someone  else  with  the  administrative  functions  to 
which  he  was  so  badly  suited.  Who  was  that  some 
one  ?  The  City  of  Paris.  After  having  requested  and 
obtained  her  patronage,  he  boldly  proposed  to  put 
her  in  his  stead  and  place.  The  City  of  Paris 
accepted  the  offer.  The  Saint- Victor  Institution 
successively  assumed  the  names  of  '  Iicole  Frangois 
I.'  <£cole  Chaptal,'  'College  Municipal  Chaptal,' 
and  Goubaux  changed  his  title  of  Principal  of  the 
institute  for  that  of  Director.  The  change  meant 
more  than  the  discharge  of  all  his  liabilities,  it  meant 
comfort  and  freedom  from  care.  Freed  at  last  from 
debt  and  carking  worries,  he  had  the  satisfaction  of 
watching,  from  the  window  of  that  room  where  he 
had  suffered  and  contrived  so  much,  the  influx  of 
more  than  eighteen  hundred  scholars  within  the 
enlarged  grounds  ;  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
the  walls  of  the  original  and  humble  establishment 
extend  further  and  further  until  the  establishment 
swallowed  up  the  adjacent  mansions  and  finally  be- 


'y    Years  of  Recollections  41 

came  the  centre  of  a  new  system  of  public  education  in 
France.  But  Goubaux  was  not  content  with  having 
founded  the  method,  he  wished,  before  he  died,  to 
insure  its  future  and  he  accomplished  his  wish  by  one 
of  those  strokes  which  virtually  show  the  whole  man. 

At  the  period  when  he  was  merely  the  principal 
of  the  Saint- Victor  Institute  his  concierge  was  a 
man  whom  he  particularly  liked  and  respected.  The 
concierge  had  a  son,  an  intelligent  lad.  Goubaux 
noticed  his  intelligence  and  took  him  away  from 
the  porter's  lodge  ;  no,  he  did  not  take  him  away, 
he  as  it  were  left  him  there,  for  the  lodge  meant 
the  paternal  home  and  Goubaux  did  not  wish  the 
lad  to  be  ashamed  of  it. 

So  he  took  him  into  the  school,  made  him  sleep 
in  the  dormitories,  attend  chapel  and  join  the  others 
in  play  hours,  but  every  now  and  then  the  lad  went 
back  to  the  lodge  to  assist  his  father  in  his  duties. 
And  would  the  reader  know  the  result  of  that  educa- 
tion, and  what  became  of  the  lad?  He  became  his 
master's  principal  assistant,  then  his  successor  and 
finally  the  chief  exponent  and  continuator  of  his 
method.  At  the  hour  I  write  (1885-88)  he  go\ 
that  magnificent  municipal  college,  yclept  Chaptal, 
with  a  prestige  and  lustre  which  is  only  another  title 
to  ti  t  and  honour  of  him  who,  as  it  were, 

his  capabilities    in    that    respect.      It  is   not 
an   institution  of  which  the  city  may  feel  justly 
proud,    but    the  ome    derived    from    it    < 


42  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

amounts  to  a  hundred  thousand  francs  per  annum. 
What  I  am  going  to  say  is  scarcely  credible,  it  is, 
nevertheless,  a  fact.  Twenty-seven  years  have  elapsed 
since  Goubaux  breathed  his  last  and  during  that 
time  there  has  not  been  one  prefect  of  the  Seine  nor 
one  municipal  council  to  either  of  whom  I  did  not  ad- 
dress at  least  one  humble  petition,  praying  them,  not 
to  substitute  Goubaux's  name  for  that  of  Chaptal 
who  has  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the 
affair,  but  merely  to  add  the  former's  name  to  the 
latter  on  the  frontispiece  or  door  of  the  building.* 
The  name  of  Prosper  Goubaux  who  did  everything 
is  still  wanting  on  that  frontispiece.  MM.  Hauss- 
mann,  Jules  Ferry,  Calmon,  Le"on  Say,  all  of  whom 
I  worried  until  they  must  have  loathed  my  very  name 
have  all  given  me  their  promise,  not  one  of  them 
has  kept  it.  One  day  I  decided  to  address  myself 
to  M.  Thiers.  It  was  at  Versailles  on  New  Year's  day 
1873.  M.  Thiers  had  kindly  invited  me  to  break- 
fast with  him  in  a  non-official  way,  and  just  as  we 
were  sitting  down  to  table,  I  asked  him  in  a  jocular 
way  :  '  M.  le  President  de  la  Republique,  will  you 
make  me  a  present  for  the  new  year  ? '  *  With  the 
greatest  of  pleasure,  my  dear  colleague,'  he  answered, 
laughing.  '  What  can  I  give  you,  I  wonder  ?  ' 

Thereupon    I    told    him    the    story   of    Goubaux's 


*  Chaptal  was  a  Minister  of  the  Interior  during  the  First  Empire 
and  died  in  1832.  He  was  an  eminent  professor  of  chemistry  and 
made  some  valuable  discoveries  that  benefited  art  and  industry. — TR. 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  43 

heroic  perseverance  in  brief,  adding  that  the  inscrip- 
tion of  his  name  on  the  frontispiece  of  the  college 
was  his  due,  that  it  was  virtually  a  debt  of  honour 
due  to  his  children  who  had  a  right  to  claim  it  as  an 
inheritance,  that  the  inscription  would  be  a  salutary- 
lesson  to  all  the  pupils,  and  the  only  means  of  the 
City  of  Paris  to  discharge  her  obligations  towards 
him. 

'  You  are  absolutely  right  in  what  you  say,'  replied 
M.  Thiers,  with  that  spontaneous  animation  which 
constituted  one  of  the  charms  of  his  character,  then, 
turning  to  M.  Barthelemy  Saint- Hilaire  he  went 
on,  '  I  say,  Saint-Hilaire,  I  wish  you  to  write  to  the 
Prefect  of  the  Seine  to  insist  in  my  name  upon  M. 
Legouve's  getting  his  demands.'  M.  Barthelemy 
Saint-IIilaire  wrote  the  letter,  which  reached  the  Pre- 
fect in  due  time  and  was  answered — after  that  nothing. 
Nor  is  this  all.  I  need  not  point  out  the  sympathetic 

•mess  of  our  city   fathers  to   perpetuate  on    tin- 
walls   of  Paris   the   remembrance   of  those    who   set 
Paris  on  fire.     Well,  in  spite  of  all  our  efforts  they 
have  systematically  neglected  or  refused,  which  c< 
to  the  same  thing,  to  inscribe  the  name  of  Goul> 
at  one  of  the  corners  of  one  of  those  modest  streets  ad- 
join i  ollege  Chaptal.     Dors  it  not  look  as  if  the 
cruel  fate-  that  weighed   him  flown  during  his  life 
bent  upon   pursuing  him  after  his  death,  as  if  public 
/ere  bent  upon  pursuing  the  cruel    j> 

te?     After  all,  it  does  not  matter  much       1 


44  Sixty    1  'ears  of  Recollections 

may  endeavour  to  efface  his  name  from  his  work,  the 
work  will,  nevertheless,  live,  and  Goubaux  is,  in  spite 
of  everything,  the  '  creator '  of  the  system  of  profes- 
sional education  in  France.  Let  us,  therefore,  refrain 
from  attaching  the  smallest  trapping  of  woe  to  his 
memory.  He  would  not  thank  us  for  it,  he  who  al- 
ways showed  not  only  a  placid,  but  a  laughing  face 
to  the  blows  of  fortune.  In  fact,  I  may  say,  without 
exaggeration,  that  I  never  knew  so  cheerful  a  man,  as 
that  man  who  was  so  sorely  tried  by  fortune.  In  the 
midst  of  his  most  terrible  anguish  there  would  sud- 
denly come  a  burst  of  laughter,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine 
piercing  the  banked-up,  sullen  clouds.  In  a  letter  to 
my  daughter,  after  telling  her  of  the  endless  worries 
with  which  he  was  for  ever  contending,  he  adds  : 
*  Oh,  by  the  by,  on  Sunday,  we'll  be  dining  with  the 
Gilberts.  I  don't  feel  hungry  yet,  but  the  appetite 
will  come  in  good  time.'  One  of  his  last  collabora- 
teurs  was  Michel  Masson,  gentle  Michel  Masson, 
who  with  his  long,  silvery  locks  and  placid  face 
looked  like  a  white  lamb.  One  day  while  he  was 
working  with  Goubaux  at  some  drama  the  name  of 
which  I  have  forgotten,  Goubaux  proposed  a  new  in- 
cident. The  idea  does  not  seem  to  strike  Masson, 
who  with  ever  so  many  precautions  and  apologies 
hints  very  timidly  and  in  a  kind  of  whisper  that  the 
idea  may  not  be  altogether  appropriate,  '  All  right, 
Masson,'  exclaims  Goubaux,  rising  from  his  chair, 
'  it " y°u  are  g°ing  t°  ^e  angry  about  it.  .  .  .' 


.SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  45 

The  most  admirable  feature  of  Goubaux's  ga 
was  that  it  not  only  sharpened  his  fancy,  imagination 
and  wit,  but  that  it  assumed  one  of  the  forms  by 
which  he  manifested  his  indomitable  pluck.  Men, 
nay  even  God,  might  abandon  him,  he  steadfastly 
refused  to  strike  or  desert  his  flag.  One  of  our 
common  friends,  a  lady,  said,  '  If  M.  Goubaux  fell 
into  the  sea,  and  had  been  absolutely  drowned  for 
more  than  an  hour,  people  would  still  see  his  arms 
frantically  waving  above  the  water  and  his  voice  cry 
for  help.'  Such  was  the  man  ;  he  had  faith,  hope  and 
charitv,  and  these  saved  him. 


CHAPTER   II 

A  digression  on  Dramatic  Collaboration. — Mme.  Legouve  tells  a  Story. 
— Her  Husband  sees  the  subject  of  a  Comedy  in  it. — He  sets  to 
work  at  once  to  draw  the  Plan.— Opportune  arrival  of  Goubaux.— 
They  make  up  their  minds  to  'collaborate  once  more. — A  few 
instances  of  Collaboration.  —  How  M.  Legouve  and  Prosper 
Goubaux  wrote  'Louise  de  Lignerolles.' — A  French  Interior. — 
The  Authors  are  stopped  by  a  difficulty. — How  Authors  find  their 
Sensational  Effects  and  Denouements. — How  M.  Legouve  found 
his. — A  true  Story. — M.  Legouve  finds  a  Letter  relating  to  it  among 
his  papers  and  at  the  same  time  finds  his  Denouement. — A  peep  at 
the  National  Guards  in  the  late  Thirties. — The  Dress  Rehearsals 
of  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles.' — The  Premiere. — Success. 

I 

THE  system  of  collaboration  is  very  much  decried 
nowadays  ;  I  will  only  say  a  few  words  in  its  defence. 
Let  us  suppress  for  a  moment  the  results  of  collabora- 
tion from  the  French  repertory  for  the  last  sixty  years, 
and  by  the  same  stroke  of  the  pen  we  lose  a  great 
part  of  the  dramatic  work  of  Scribe,  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  dramatic  work  of  Bayard,  M£lesville,  Duma- 
noir,  Dennery,  the  whole  of  the  dramatic  work  of 
Labiche,  of  Barriere,  the  whole  of  the  dramatic  work 
of  Duvert  and  Lausanne,  the  whole  of  the  dramatic 
work  of  Meilhac  and  HaleVy,  and  last  of  all,  five  of 
the  masterpieces  in  the  domains  of  comedy  and  the 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  47 

drama.  In  comedy  we  lose  '  Le  Gendre  de  M. 
Poirier,'  'Mademoiselle  de  la  Scigliere'  and  'Made- 
moiselle de  Belle-Isle/  for  though  these  works  bear 
the  name  of  one  author  only  on  their  title  pages, 
they  are,  nevertheless,  the  work  of  two  authors.  In 
the  drama  we  lose  '  La  Tour  de  Nesle'  and  '  Richard 
Darlington.'  No  one  respects  and  admires  more 
than  I  the  immortal  works  which,  '  fully  armed '  have 
sprung  from  one  brain,  such  as  '  QEdipe  Roi,' 
'  Macbeth,'  '  Polyeucte,'  '  Britannicus.'  But  are  there 
not,  even  among  the  masterpieces,  stage  plays  due  to 
the  association  of  two  men  of  genius  ?  Is  not  '  Le 
Cid'  by  Corneille  and  Guillen  de  Castro?  Is  not 
'  Iphigenie '  by  Racine  and  Euripides  ;  is  not '  Phedre ' 
by  Racine,  Euripides  and  Seneca.  Are  there  many 
collaborateurs  that  have  assisted  their  temporary 
partners  more  effectively  than  Plautus  helped  Moliere 
in  •  Amphitryon'  and  '  L'Avare.  Is  not  the  best  act 
of  the  'Psyche'  of  Moliere  the  work  of  Corneille? 
It  seems  to  me  that  a  form  of  art  to  which  we 

such  works,  which  causes   our   drama    to    r« 
throughout  the  whole  of  Europe  deserves  something 
r  than  supercilious  contempt,  leaving  alone  the 
that    a    number    of    brilliant    but    incom] 
intellects  which,  if  left  to   their  own   resources  would 
remained   barren,  have  been   lifted  out  of  them- 
y  that   kind  of  association    and    proved    the 
sufficiently  novel    rule    in   arithmetic    that    twice   one 


48  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

No  one,  then,  need  be  surprised  at  my  taking  up 
the  cudgels  for  collaboration  ;  I  am  indebted  to  it 
for  three  friends ;  Goubaux,  Scribe  and  Labiche  ;  and 
if  the  pieces  I  wrote  by  myself;  *  Medee,'  '  Par  droit 
de  conquete,'  and  '  Un  jeune  homme  qui  ne  fait  rien,' 
have  not  been  less  successful  than  the  others  it  is  pro- 
bably because  I  remembered  while  writing  them  what 
I  had  learned  during  my  collaboration  with  others. 

Collaboration  has  at  least  this  privilege,  it  arouses 
to  a  strange  degree  the  curiosity  of  the  outside  world. 
Not  once  but  a  hundred  times  have  I  been  asked  : 
'  But  how  do  two  authors  manage  to  write  one  piece; 
in  what  way  is  it  constructed,  in  what  way  is  it 
written  ? '  I  doubt  whether  I  could  give  them  a 
better  idea  of  that  method  of  work  than  by  showing 
them  a  '  collaboration  '  in  the  act. 

Ishad  been  married  about  three  years  and  was  con- 
stantly thinking  of  redeeming  my  failure  when  one 
morning  my  wife,  while  talking  about  some  of  her 
school  friends,  all  of  a  sudden  uttered  the  name  of  Clelie. 
1  Clelie,'  I  repeated,  laughing,  '  how  does  she  come  by 
that  name?  Is  she  a  young  Roman  woman?'  'By 
birth,  no,  but  in  face  and  feeling,  yes.  Handsome, 
dark,  tall,  with  a  profile  like  that  of  an  old  medal 
and  eyes  both  full  of  sweetness  and  courage,  Clelie 
added  to  those  energetic  traits  a  kind  of  bantering 
spirit  which  she  showed  under  rather  curious  circum- 
stances.' '  Tell  me  all  about  it,'  I  said. 

'  The  story  is  worth  telling,'  said  my  wife.     '  She 


.V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  49 

had  been  married  for  something  like  four  years  to  a 
Creole  who  was  passionately  fond  of  her,  they  were 
living  in  a  nice  country  place  at  Vineuil  near  Chan- 
tilly.  The  old  Prince  de  Bourbon  was  still  alive 
and  his  magnificent  hunts  had  made  that  part  of  the 
country  famous.  One  day  the  stag  having  jumped 
the  hedge  of  Clelie's  garden,  the  whole  of  the  pack, 
the  huntsmen  and  some  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  hunt 
themselves  followed  suit  and  virtually  enacted  the 
fable  of  La  Fontaine.  Next  morning,  Cl£lie,  whose 
husband  happened  to  be  absent  at  the  time,  wrote 
very  politely,  but  at  the  same  time  very  firmly  to  the 
Prince  complaining  of  the  damage  that  had  been 
done  and  expressing  the  formal  desire  that  the 
thing  should  not  occur  again.  A  week  later  there 
another  hunt  and  another  invasion  of  her  domi- 
cile. Clelie  was  sitting  in  her  small  drawing-room 
engaged  with  some  embroidery  when  the  servant  came 
to  tell  her  that  the  stag  had  leaped  into  the  garden, 
that  the  pack  had  come  after  it,  and  that  the  hunts- 
men and  the  rest  were  tearing  at  full  speed  in  the 
direction  of  the  hed  lie  gets  up  very  quietly, 

•  •rvants   to  sei/e  two  of  the  handsomest 
hounds  in  the  pack  and,  followed  by  her  gardener  who 
at  her  command  has  caught  up  his  -un,  pr< 
the  hcd-e,  holding  her  piece  of  embroidery.     At  the 

moment  two  young  fellows  on  1 
on  the  other  the  hedge.     'Stop  gentlemen,  1 

u  t<>  conn-  any  further/  she  >ays,  still  put; 
\oi..   ii  D 


50  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

in  a  stitch  here  and  there.  Great  surprise  of  the  two 
young  fellows  who  begin  to  banter  her  in  a  good- 
natured  way,  urging  their  horses  meanwhile  to  take 
the  jump.  '  If  you  move  another  step,  gentlemen,' 
says  Cle"lie,  '  my  gardener  will  fire  on  you  without  the 
slightest  compunction.  This  is  an  absolute  case  of 
trespass/  she  adds,  laughing,  'and  I  have  assuredly 
the  right  to  defend  myself.  Oh,  by-the-bye,  before  I 
forget,  you  may  tell  the  Prince  that  I  hold  two  of  his 
best  hounds  as  hostages.'  After  hesitating  for  a 
moment  or  so  the  young  fellows  lifted  their  hats  and 
turned  their  horses'  heads.  The  hunt  had  virtually 
been  stopped,  the  stag  '  got  away '  and  the  negotia- 
tions between  the  Prince  and  Clelie  for  the  restitution 
of  the  two  staghounds  brought  about  a  correspond- 
ence and  a  series  of  proposals,  terminating  amidst  all 
the  courtly  graces  of  the  ancien  regime,  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  Clelie  in  the  Prince's  drawing-rooms  with 
all  the  honours  of  war  thick  upon  her. 

My  wife's  story  had  worked  me  up  to  such  a  pitch 
that  I  scarcely  gave  myself  time  to  finish  my  break- 
fast. I  rushed  to  my  writing-table,  and  before  night- 
fall I  had  built  up  and  written  the  whole  of  a  first 
act.  Goubaux  happening  to  come  in  to  take  'pot- 
luck,'  I  read  him  what  I  had  written  during  the  day. 
'  The  deuce,'  he  exclaimed,  '  but  there  is  sufficient 
material  there  for  a  five-act  drama.  That  woman  is 
a  character,  and  oh  a  character  one  can  build  up  a 
drama.'  *  Yes,'  I  replied,  '  the.  thing  is  to  find  your 


.;;'    rears  of  Recollections  51 

drama.'  '  That's  simple  enough.  You  have  only  got 
to  find  some  pathetic  situation,  calculated  to  bring 
into  relief  such  a  person,  and  after  all,  there  are 
only  two  situations  of  that  kind.  Are  we  to  depict 
her  struggling  against  an  intense  passion,  or  contend- 
ing with  a  great  grief?  Are  \ve  to  paint  her  in  the 
light  of  a  victim,  or  of  a  guilty  woman?  If  she  have 
a  lover.  .  .  .'  I  left  him  no  time  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence. '  No  lover,'  I  exclaimed,  '  I'll  never  consent  to 
give  her  a  lover.  It  would  be  tantamount  to  sullying 
her  character,  and  to  convert  her  into  a  vulgar  type. 
It  would  merely  make  us  relapse  into  the  hackneyed 
drama  of  the  adulterous  woman.'  '  Very  well,'  re- 
marked Goubaux  laughing,  '  but  if  you  refuse  to 
provide  her  with  a  lover,  you'll  have  to  provide  her 
husband  with  a  mistress.  The  interest  would  lie  in 
the  showing  of  a  character  like  hers  struggling  with 
regret,  sorrow,  irritation,  against  the  desire  for  venge- 
ance ;  in  short,  in  half-a-dozen  aspects,  to  be  de- 

i  on  eventually.'     *  That  suits  me  better,'  I  said. 
Thereupon,  Goubaux  turning  to  my  wife  began  to 

lion  her.     'Tell  me,  madame,'  he  said,  'what  was 
this  ('Iclie  like  as  a  woman;  what  sort  of  man  was 

husband,  and    what   sort   of  life   did    they  lead 

'  It    was    a    very    stormy    life    indeed. 

passionately  fond  of  her,  the  husband  let  his 

,i nation  run  riot ;  he  was  fickle  and  capricious  like 
all  (  •mscqueiitly  his  life  was  pretty  well  spent 

in   deceiving   his  wife  and   in   asking   her   pardon,  but 


52  vSY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

on  his  bended  knees  and  with  tears,  and  sobs  and 
promises  not  to  repeat  the  offence,  the  whole  accom- 
panied by  recurrent  periods  of  conjugal  passion,  all 
the  more  ardent  from  their  being  complicated  by 
remorse,  and  what  was  worse,  sincere  remorse.'  *  And 
she  ? '  *  She  listened  to  it  all,  submitted  to  every- 
thing, with  a  mixture  of  dignity,  intense  grief  and 
suppressed  tears  that  made  her  like  one  of  the 
women  depicted  by  Corneille.' 

'Well,'  I  exclaimed,  'here  we  have  got  the  stand- 
point of  our  two  characters,  all  we  have  got  to  do  is 
to  inflict  upon  her  a  sufficient  amount  of  suffering  in 
order  to  make  her  abandon  her  apparently  calm 
attitude,  to  make  her  groan  and  shriek  with  rage  and 
grief,  in  short,  to  make  the  faithlessness  of  the  husband 
the  leading  motive  of  the  play.  We  must  prove,  by 
a  very  vigorous  dramatic  action,  that  such  faithless- 
ness may  be  fraught  with  as  much  danger  and  lead  to 
as  many  catastrophes  as  the  faithlessness  of  the  wife/ 
'  It  is  decidedly  an  excellent  subject,'  exclaimed 
Goubaux.  '  In  that  case,  let  us  set  to  work  at  once, 
my  dear  Goubaux,  and  just  teach  me  my  craft,  by 
writing  this  piece  with  me.' 

This,  then,  is  the  way  in  which  the  primary  sketch 
of  a  piece  is  drawn  by  two  authors  working  in  con- 
junction, it  is  virtually  a  conversation  between  these 
two  on  a  given  subject.  The  one  supplies  the  idea  or 
the  fact,  the  other  discusses  it  with  him,  they  get 
talking  together,  looking  for  ideas,  suggesting  to,  and 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  53 

contradicting  one  another  ;  the  shock  of  two  minds 
produces  the  fusion  of  ideas,  and  from  the  fusion 
springs  the  plan.  When  the  plan  is  finished,  it  has  to 
be  carried  out. 

There  are  various  ways  of  carrying  out  a  plan 
sketched  by  two  authors.  In  some  instances,  one  of 
the  authors  undertakes  to  sketch  the  whole  of  the 
work,  which  the  other  fills  in  and  finishes.  In  others 
the  acts  are  divided  between  them  ;  the  one  writes 
the  first  two  acts,  the  other  the  last  three,  the  whole 
is  revised  by  both. 

Labiche  and  I  wrote  '  La  Cigale  chez  les  Fourmis ' 
without  ever  working  together.  One  day  I  met  him 
coming  out  of  the  Thc&tre-Frangais,  to  the  Committee 
<>f  which  he  had  just  been  reading  a  one-act  comedy, 
entitled,  'Les  Fourmis.'  He  was  dissatisfied  and 
more  or  less  hipped  and  offended.  The  Committee 
had  accepted  his  piece,  but  lukewarmly  not  to  say 
coldly,  and  solely  because  it  was  by  him.  '  The 
Committee  is  simply  absurd,'  he  said,  'the  piece  is 
very  amusing,  and  there  is  a  capital  part  for  Pro- 
vost. I  should  like  you  to  read  it.'  With  which 
lie  hands  me  the  piece.  Two  days  later  I  gave  him 
my  opinion.  'My  dear  LabiYlu-,'  I  said,  laughin  i 
am  inclined  to  side  with  the  Committee.  The  first 
third  of  the  IS  delightful,  the  rest  should  be 

i.      What  you   want   in    it    is  a  young  g 
Face  to  face  with  the  frugal,  saving  ants,  you 
want    a    lavish  >pper.' — 'Your     idea 


54  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

strikes  me  as  excellent;  will  you  rewrite  the  piece 
by  yourself?' — 'I  can,  at  any  rate,  try.  I  leave  for 
Cannes  to-morrow,  I'll  take  your  manuscript  with 
me  and  in  a  fortnight  I'll  show  you  what  I  have 
done.' 

I  returned  in  a  fortnight,  I  showed  him  the  piece; 
we  read  it  to  the  Committee,  it  is  accepted  and  played 
and  we  score  a  genuine  success,  on  the  occasion  of 
which  I  composed  the  following  small  distich — 

'  Entre  Labiche  et  moi  la  partie  est  egale  ; 
II  a  fait  les  Fourmis  et  j'ai  fait  la  Cigale? 

Goubaux  and  I  did  the  very  reverse,  but  our  coll- 
aboration was  none  the  less  curious.  The  new  year's 
holidays  being  at  hand,  Goubaux  publicly  informed 
his  pupils  that  he  was  going  to  take  a  short  journey. 
The  journey  was  very  short  indeed,  for  it  merely 
consisted  in  his  taking  his  dressing-bag  and  a  change 
of  linen  from  the  Rue  Blanche,  where  his  school  was 
situated,  to  my  house  in  the  Rue  Saint-Marc  where 
he  took  up  his  quarters  in  a  small  room  adjoining  the 
drawing-room.  I,  on  my  side,  announced  to  all  and 
sundry  that  we  were  going  away  for  a  week,  and 
when  we  had  lowered  the  blinds  of  the  windows  look- 
ing into  the  courtyard,  we  three,  Goubaux,  my  wife 
and  I  were  virtually  isolated  from  the  world,  and  our 
life  of  reclusion  began. 

At  seven  in  the  morning,  we  two,  Goubaux  and  I, 
were  in  my  study  where  we  found  the  fire  lighted,  the 


Si.vty   Years  of  Recollections  5  5 

tea  prepared  and  the  mistress  of  the  house  enacting 
the  part  of  Charlotte  in  '  \Verther'  to  us,  she  was  cut- 
ting bread  and  butter.  After  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of 
cheerful  gossip  and  laughter  we  set  to  work.  Seated 
at  the  same  writing  table,  opposite  one  another,  we 
looked  like  a  couple  of  schoolboys  doing  their  lessons. 
We  were  positively  in  ecstasy  with  the  thing.  The 
most  curious  feature  of  the  arrangement,  perhaps,  was 
that  we  began  the  same  act  at  the  beginning  and  at 
the  same  time.  Starting  from  the  pre-arranged  plan, 
we  began  both  at  the  first  scenes,  and  in  that  way  \\v 
wrote  the  first  act,  each  bringing  to  the  dialogue  and 
to  the  portrayal  of  the  characters  his  individuality  of 
fancy  or  reflection.  At  mid-day  we  three  breakfasted 
together,  or  rather  we  four,  for  my  little  daughter 
who  was  about  two,  made  her  appearance  at  that 
hour;  and  her  wondering  looks,  her  plump  little 
cheeks,  her  dress,  a  masterpiece  of  maternal  taste 
and  coquettishness,  her  earnest  demeanour  as  she 
sat  in  her  high  chair,  the  drollery  of  her  answers, 
(children  have  the  knack  of  enunciating  such  unex- 
cd  ideas,  as  to  give  one  the  impression  that  they 
have  really  a  sense  of  humour)  constituted  one  of  the 
amusing  parts  of  the  breakfast.  It  was  strictly  for- 
bidden to  sp^ak  of  or  to  allude  to  our  work  during 
the  ;  :iich  prohibition  did  not  prevent  my  wife 

from  noticing  with  a  smile,  our  anxious  or  beaming 
looks  and  to  deduct  from  them  favourable  prognosti- 
cations or  the  reverse.  After  breakfast,  we  ha 


56  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

hour's  music,  which  had  the  effect  of  soothing  our 
minds,  while  at  the  same  time  it  served  as  a  reward 
and  as  an  encouragement  or  stimulant  to  further  ex- 
ertions. There  is  a  mysterious  bond  between  all 
the  arts.  A  melodious  piece  of  music  often  has  the 
effect  of  inspiring  you  with  a  happy  line,  and  during 
that  period  of  work  Weber  or  Beethoven  or  Schu- 
bert has  often  assisted  me  in  overcoming  a  difficulty 
in  this  or  that  scene. 

At  the  end  of  ten  days,  Goubaux's  holidays  being 
about  to  expire  and  our  two  acts  being  finished,  we 
summoned  the  reading  committee,  which  committee 
was  composed  of  my  wife.  '  I  am  assuming  the 
functions  of  Laforet,*  she  said,  settling  herself  com- 
fortably in  an  armchair  with  her  embroidery.  We 
each  brought  our  exercises,  and  she  added  laughing, 
'  Little  boy  Goubaux,  let  us  hear  what  you  have 
done.' 

The  double  lecture  led  to  many  interruptions.  It 
was  I  who  exclaimed  now  and  then  while  listening 
to  Goubaux,  'Well  done,  that's  better  than  mine.' 
'  Don't  influence  the  Court,'  said  my  wife  gravely. 
And  the  Court,  after  having  heard  both  sides  and 
being  asked  to  state  which  of  the  acts  she  preferred 
answered,  *  I  fancy  I  prefer  them  both  ;  both  have 
amused  me,  but  not  in  the  same  places.  The  begin- 
ning of  the  piece  seems  to  me  more  striking  in  M. 

*  Moliere's  servant,  to  whom  he  is  said  to  have  read  his  plays  while 
composing  them,— TK. 


.SY.r.  f  of  Recollections  57 

Goubaux's  manuscript,  but  the  end  of  the  same  has 
pleased  me  better  in  M.  Ernest  Legouve's.  I  like 
the  woman's  part  better  in  the  one  and  the  father's 
part  better  in  the  other.  It  strikes  me  that  by  fus- 
ing the  two  versions  into  one  we'll  get  a  perfect  union 
like  ours.' 

*  This  is  Solomon's  wisdom  unalloyed,'  exclaimed 
M.  Goubaux  ;  '  and  as  I  have  to  resume  my  collar 
to-morrow,  Legouve  will  accomplish  the  union.' 

So  said  so  done.  We  spent  the  winter  in  finishing 
the  piece  and  in  the  beginning  of  spring  went  to 
Kugene  Sue  to  read  it  to  him.  He  placed  himself 
at  his  easel  in  order  to  listen  to  us,  for  he  professed  to 
be  able  to  listen  best  when  painting. 

The  effect  produced  was  both  excellent  and  dis- 
astrous at  the  same  time.  The  first  three  acts  were 
1  a  great  success,  the  other  two  considered  exe- 
crable. No  amount  of  corrections,  of  improvements, 
of  excision  would  mend'  them,  they  had  simply  to  be 
put  aside  and  new  ones  written  in  their  stead.  All 
the  pluck  had  been  taken  out  of  us,  and  four  months 
elapsed  during  which  we  cudgelled  our  brains  in  vain 
for  a  new  solution.  We  wen-  he-inning  to  -ive  up 
all  hope  of  success,  when  unexpected  aid,  a  provi- 
dential auxiliary  .  out  of  our  difficulty.  Who 
and  what  wa^  that  auxiliary?  A  third  collaborateur. 
\\h<>  was  that  third  collaborates ?  A  very  curious 
•11  comes  to  the  aid  of  authors 
as  a  rule,  invoke  no  one's  aid,  and  of  whom,  the 


58  StJi'fy    Years  of  Recollections 

personage,  it  would  therefore  be  well  to  say  a  few 
words  in  this  chapter  on  collaboration.  The  in- 
dividual's name  is  *  Chance.' 

Chance,  in  fact,  plays  a  great  part  in  dramatic 
conceptions.  A  word  picked  up  at  random,  a  book 
one  happens  to  read,  a  person  one  happens  to  meet, 
may  suggest  all  at  once  the  very  idea  for  which  one 
has  been  looking  in  vain. 

In  1849,  Emile  Augier  was  superintending  the  re- 
hearsals of  '  Gabrielle,'  at  the  Th&itre-Francais.  All 
went  well  until  the  fifth  act,  when  the  whole  seemed 
to  come  to  a  sudden  stop.  Both  authors  and  actors 
felt  the  necessity  of  some  vigorous,  unforeseen  situa- 
tion, in  order  to  put  life  into  that  act.  Augier  cud- 
gelled his  brain  to  no  purpose,  he  could  find  nothing. 
One  morning  he  is  strolling  along  the  Quai  des 
Saint-Peres,  when  on  reaching  the  Pont  des  Arts,  he 
notices  in  front  of  him,  and  looking  at  the  '  Institute,' 
a  man  of  about  forty,  accompanied  by  his  little 
daughter.  Owing  to  the  early  hour,  the  bridge  was 
almost  deserted,  and  the  child,  finding  herself  un- 
hampered in  her  movements,  ran  on  in  front,  then 
came  back  to  her  father,  flung  herself  into  his  arms, 
while  he  lifted  her  up  to  kiss  her  amidst  her  pileasant 
laughter  and  her  embraces.  The  picture  was  abso- 
Jutely  delightful,  and  Augier,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing them,  could  not  help  exclaiming,  *  Bravo.'  The 
gentleman  was  none  other  than  the  chief  interpreter 
of  '  Gabrielle,'  M.  Regnier,  the  little  girl  was  his 


SLvtv    Years  of  Recollections  59 

daughter.     *  Have   you    any  children,  Sir    Ambassa- 

A 

dor?'  (Etes  vous  pere,  monsieur  1'ambassadeur ?) * 
asked  the  artist  in  response  to  Augier's  '  Bravo.'  '  No 
I  have  only  my  sister's  children,'  replied  the  dram- 
atist. They  stand  talking  for  a  moment  or  so,  and 
each  goes  his  respective  way,  the  poet  musing  upon  the 
picture  he  had  just  seen.  The  gambols  of  the  little 
one,  the  two  faces,  their  looks,  their  laughter,  had 
suddenly  evoked  such  a  vivid  image  of  paternal 
tenderness,  as  to  show  him  his  fifth  act  in  an  alto- 
gether new  light.  The  father  of  the  piece  all  at  once 
assumes  grandiose  proportions  which  is  the  very  thing 
wanted  for  the  denouement,  and  the  author  goes 
home  to  write  one  of  the  most  touching  scenes  of  the 
modern  drama.  I  only  quote  the  beginning  of  it : 

.V.us  n'existons  vraiment  que  par  ces  petits  etres 
Qui  dans  tout  notre  coeur  s'etablissent  en  maitres, 
'  jui  prennent  notre  vie  et  ne  s'en  doutent  pas, 
Et  n'ont  qu'a  vivre  heureux  pour  n'etre  point  in- 

is  no  doubt  that  a  man  must  be  an  Augier 
to  draw  such  lines  from  such  a  meeting ;  a  great 
many  dramatists  might  have  come  that  way  on  that 
morning,  and  their  fifth  act  would  still  have  been  in 
limbo,  but  to  Kmile  Augier  the  Pont  des  Arts  has 
really  been  the  short  cut  to  the  Acack  nnV -I-Van^aise. 

Well,  it  was  by  a  similar  accident,  by  a  k-tt 
found   unexpectedly,  by  a  story  with   which    I    had 

•  The  question  of  Henri  IV  to  the  Spanish  ambassador,  when  the 
entered  the  room  and  found   hi  horses'  with  his 


60  .SV.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

been  mixed  up  and  which  suddenly  recurred  to  my 
mind,  that  I  was  inspired.  But  the  story  is  too 
striking,  it  has  left  too  great  a  landmark  in  my  life 
not  to  give  it  in  full. 

II 

I  was  in  Rome  in  1832.  I  was  only  twenty-five  and 
became  acquainted  with  a  Frenchman,  a  little  older 
than  myself,  but  to  whom  I  took  a  great  liking  on 
account  of  his  energetic  temperament  and  his  original 
turn  of  mind.  Tall,  robust,  somewhat  full-blooded, 
with  a  black  beard  and  very  light  blue  eyes  his 
appearance  produced  the  usual  strange  effects  of 
those  contrasts.  M.  Auguste  Leroux  went  shooting 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome  with .  Horace  Vernet, 
practised  fencing  with  Constantin,  the  celebrated 
painter  on  porcelain,  painted  very  nicely  himself  and 
brought  back  from  his  shooting  expeditions  as  many 
pretty  water  colours  as  game,  spent  his  money  *  like 
a  lord '  and  was  absolutely  weary  of  everything.  He 
had  a  natural,  hereditary  tendency  to  spleen,  which, 
it  should  be  said,  was  fully  justified  by  a  terrible 
event  that  had  befallen  him  in  his  youth.  One  morn- 
ing his  father  while  sitting  at  breakfast  with  his  son 
and  his  daughter,  got  up  from  the  table  without 
saying  a  word,  and  a  few  minutes  afterwards  the 
children  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol.  As  a  matter 
of  course  they  rushed  out  of  the  room,  and  at  about  a 
score  of  steps  from  the  door  found  their  father  lying 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  6 1 

dead.  He  had  blown  his  brains  out.  The  catastrophe 
cast  a  shadow  on  the  young  fellow's  life ;  he  often 
said  to  me  :  '  I'll  finish  up  like  my  father.' 

On  our  return  from  Italy  our  cordial  intercourse 
soon  changed  into  friendship.  He  introduced  me  to 
his  sister,  whom  he  worshipped,  and  whose  children  he 
positively  idolised.  Their  father's  tragic  death  had 
drawn  the  bond  between  them  still  closer.  They  had 
been  drawn  together  by  fear  as  well  as  affection.  He 
had  also  introduced  me  to  his  dearest  or  rather  to  his 
then  only  friend,  M.  G.  Delacour.  M.  Delacour,  after 
having  spent  many  years  in  the  service  of  his  country 
had  retired  with  the  rank  of  lieutenant-colonel.  He 
had  inherited  a  considerable  fortune,  and  at  the  age 
of  forty-five  married  a  poor  but  marvellously  good- 
looking  young  girl.  I  have  never  seen  a  more  strik- 
ing contrast  between  man  and  wife.  The  husband 
simple  to  a  degree,  even  somewhat  stern,  but  one 
of  those  noble,  kindly  natures  which  shrink  from 
ch,  and  are  content  to  let  their  deeds  speak  for 
themselves.  M.  Delacour  reminded  me  of  some  of 
those  military  characters  of  the  first  Republic,  so 
frequently  met  with  at  that  period.  As  for  the  wife, 
she  was  like  a  picture  by  Wutteau,  tiny,  plump,  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  saucy  eyes,  teeth  that  were  so  white 
as  to  be  a  smile  in  themselves,  two  ever-shifting 
dimples  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  and  such  a 
throat,  bu^t  and  arm  hort,  a  delightful  mix: 

of  little  fair\",  little  doll  and  Tar: 


62  .SV.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

The  almost  inevitable  consequences  of  such  a 
union  may  easily  be  guessed — Mme.  Delacour  de- 
ceived her  husband.  He  discovered  her  faithlessness 
and  consulted  his  friend.  *  You  have  but  one  course 
open  to  you,'  was  the  advice,  '  to  kill  the  lover  and 
discard  the  wife.'  '  The  lover  is  gone.'  '  The  wife 
remains,  turn  her  out  of  your  house.'  But  M.  Dela- 
cour happened  to  be  madly  in  love,  the  wife  wept, 
flung  herself  at  his  feet,  promised  amendment,  the 
husband  was  willing  to  forgive,  M.  Leroux  alone  re- 
mained inflexible.  '  If  you  pardon  her  to-day,  she 
will  recommence  to-morrow.  If  I  were  you,  I  should 
put  her  away/  he  said. 

Two  or  three  days  later,  on  leaving  his  friend's 
room,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  in  the  adjacent 
room  with  the  wife  who  had  been  watching  for 
him.  'I  would  like  to  speak  with  you,  monsieur,' 
she  said.  '  I  am  at  your  service,  madame,'  saying 
which  he  follows  her  into  a  small  drawing-room,  the 
door  of  which  she  closes  behind  her.  Then  she  goes 
straight  up  to  him,  looks  him  full  in  the  face  and 
says :  '  Why  this  merciless  attitude  against  me, 
monsieur,  what  have  I  done  to  you  ? '  '  What  have 
you  done  to  me/  he  replies,  quivering  with  suppressed 
anger,  '  why,  all  the  harm  you  have  done  to  him,  you 
have  done  to  me.  Why  my  merciless  attitude? 
Because  I  hate  and  despise  you,  because  I  look  upon 
you  as  the  most  wretched  creature  on  earth  for  having 
deceived  a  man  who  dragged  you  out  of  your  poverty, 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  63 

almost  saved  you  from  starvation,  and  who  cherished 
you  as  a  brother,  a  father  and  a  lover  at  the  same 
time,  who  is  one  of  the  noblest  hearted  men  I  know, 
who  has  all  the  delicate  feelings  of  a  woman  added 
to  all  the  energies  of  a  man  ;  I  hate  you  for  having 
virtually  plunged  the  dagger  into  the  breast  of  so 
kind  a  creature.  It  shows  that  you  have  neither 
heart  nor  feeling.  It  is  out  of  pity  and  affection  for 
him,  from  horror  for  you  that  I  am  bent  upon  your 
downfall.  Good-bye,  madame,'  he  says,  leaving  the 
room. 

Left  to  herself,  crushed  beneath  the  withering 
blast  of  his  words,  she  felt  all  of  a  sudden  springing 
up  within  her  one  of  those  terrible,  instantaneous  re- 
volts which  remind  one  of  one  of  those  instances  of 
'  fate '  depicted  by  the  Greek  dramatists.  She  rose 
from  her  seat,  reeled  forward  a  few  steps,  and  dropped 
another  chair,  exclaiming,  *  Great  heavens,  I  love 
that  man  ! '  Nothing  could  have  been  more  true. 
She  loved  that  man,  she  loved  him  for  his  hatred  and 
contempt  of  her,  she  loved  him  for  his  having  told 

<>f  both.  His  indignant  denunciation  of  her  in- 
gratitude had  shed  a  halo  around  him  ;  she  looked 
upon  him  as  a  being  of  a  superior  order ;  henceforth 

had  but  one  thought,  one  wish,  to  confess  even  - 
him  ;  to  fling  herself  at  his   feet,  imploring 
him   to  kill   her,  uhi"  iming  :  'Strike,  stri: 

hand  that  shall  deal  the  blow.'     A 
enabled   to  carry  on: 


64  Si.r/j'    Yt'iirs  oj  Recollections 

plan.  Finally,  one  morning  when  he  called  upon  her 
husband,  she  confronted  him  and  without  the  slightest 
preamble,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  in  a  terrible 
burst  of  sobs,  headlong  passion,  horror  of  herself  and 
adoration  of  him,  this  tiny  creature,  whom  Fragonard 
might  have  chosen  for  a  model,  expressed  her  love  in 
passionate  accents,  the  like  of  which  for  pathos 
Alfred  de  Musset  never  found  under  his  pen.  From 
her  he  came  straight  to  my  house.  I  was  out  and  he 
left  word  that  he  would  call  next  morning.  When 
he  entered  the  room  he  looked  so  pale,  so  utterly  un- 
done that  I  could  not  help  remarking  upon  it.  He 
told  me  what  had  happened.  His  story  positively 
terrified  me,  I  beheld  'as  in  a  glass  darkly '  such  a 
horrible  future  in  store  for  him  that  I  cried  out  :  '  Go, 
go  to  America,  to  Africa,  the  farther  the  better.  Go 
away,  friend,  or  you  are  lost.  The  conflagration  is 
gaining  upon  you,  you  are  under  the  impression  that 
you  are  merely  disarmed,  that  you  are  moved  with 
pity,  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  you  are  in  love.'  '  I,' 
he  exclaimed,  starting  from  his  chair  in  sheer  be- 
wilderment ;  '  I,  but  that  would  be  too  abominable 
to  contemplate.  After  all  I  have  said,  after  all  I  have 
done,  after  all  I  feel  for  him.  No,  no,  it  is  impossible, 
it  would  be  worse  than  a  crime.'  '  You  never  spoke 
a  truer  word.  And  it  is  exactly  on  that  account  that 
you  are  struck  to  the  very  heart.  You  are  greatly 
mistaken  if  you  think  that  human  nature  is  invariably 
beautiful  and  noble.  If  you  doubt  my  word  go  and 


s  of  Recollect  65 

ask  half-a-dozen  priests,  priests  whose  duty  takes 
them  to  the  confessional.  You  are  in  love,  just  as 
much  as  she  is,  perhaps  more  than  she  is.  Take 
my  advice  and  go  away.' 

This  was  at  the  beginning  of  June  and  next  day  I 
went  with  my  family  to  Dieppe.  I  had  had  no 
news  for  a  week,  when,  on  my  return  from  bathing 
one  morning,  I  found  Leroux  at  our  lodgings.  '  You 
here,'  I  said,  horrified  at  the  change  a  week  had 
wrought  in  his  looks.  '  XYhat  has  happened  ?  '  '  You 
told  me  to  go  away,'  he  answered  in  a  painful  tone, 
4  well,  I  have  come  to  take  refuge  with  you  ;  give  me 
shelter.  The  sight  of  your  wife  and  child,  of  your 
domestic  peace  and  happiness  will  allay  my  excite- 
ment. Thank  God,  I  have  as  yet  nothing  to  re- 
proach myself  with.  I  have  not  said  a  word  to  her. 
I  have  come  to  seek  near  you  the  strength  to  remain 
nt  for  ever.' 

He  stayed  for  a  fortnight  and  I  shall  never  forget 
our  excursions  to  the  forest  of  Arques.  My  wife,  he 
and  I  got  on  to  our  horses  after  breakfast  and  for 
hours  together  rode  through  the  wild  and  soli 
country,  amidst  the  magnificent  giant-beeches  along 
the  crest  of  the  rocks  overlooking  the  rustic  valley 

l>y  the  Sorgues.     His  head  almost  toucl 
his    1  Mane,    he    scarcely    CVCT    uttered  a   word. 

as  so  painful  as  to  become  contagion 

us  down.      We  our  tant   to 

ioved  as  re  by  this  sombre  image  of 

V!..     II 


66  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

despair  and  by  the  expectation  of  some  tragic  and 
mysterious  catastrophe. 

A  letter  he  received  while  he  was  with  us  affected 
him  intensely.  His  sister  occupied  the  ground  Boor 
of  a  small  house,  standing  in  its  own  gardens  in  the 
Temple  quarter.  One  day  she  wrote  to  her  brother 
that  a  charming  young  woman  had  called  on  her  and 
proposed  to  take  the  first  floor,  that  in  the  course  of 
the  negotiations  she  had  become  acquainted  with  the 
children  both  of  whom  she  had  smothered  with  kisses, 
'  having  evidently  taken  an  affectionate  liking  to  them. 
She  has  even  made  them  some  trifling  presents,'  added 
the  sister,  '  and  they  were  offered  in  such  a  sweet  and 
delicate  way  that  it  was  impossible  to  refuse  them. 
Her  emotion  gives  me  the  impression  of  being 
prompted  by  some  recollection.' 

The  young  woman  was  none  other  than  the  un- 
happy Mme.  Delacour,  who  being  frantic  with  grief  at 
the  departure  of  the  man  she  worshipped,  had  taken 
to  prowling  around  the  house  in  order  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  two  children  as  they  went  in  and  out, 
in  order  to  get  to  speak  to  them  and  to  inspire  them 
with  a  liking  for  her.  All  this  was  done  with  the  hope 
that  he  would  come  to  hear  of  it  from  his  sister  and 
that  his  heart  would  be  touched. 

We  left  Dieppe  together,  he  to  return  to  Paris,  we 
to  return  to  our  modest  country  house.  A  month 
later,  I  learnt  from  his  own  lips  that  all  I  had  fore- 
seen, had  come  to  pass.  They  had  met  one  another 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  67 

face  to  face  once  more,  their  mad  passion  had  been 
too  much  for  them,  the  husband  had  become  cogni- 
sant of  the  affair  and  as  the  result  of  a  scene  between 
the  two  men,  Leroux  had  offered  him  the  satisfaction 
due  under  such  circumstances.  '  I'll  not  fight  you,' 
the  husband  had  chillingly  replied,  'it  would  afford 
you  too  much  gratification.  Twenty  years  of  service 
devoted  to  my  country  give  me  the  right  to  choose 
my  own  mode  of  vengeance.  I  leave  you  to  one 
another.' 

The  punishment  came  ere  long.  Leroux,  bent 
upon  giving  the  young  woman  the  life  of  luxury  she 
had  grown  used  to  since  her  marriage  flung  himself 
headlong  into  speculations  which  seriously  impaired 
his  fortune.  They  were  compelled  to  retire  to  that 
country  house  near  Compiegne  where  his  father  had 
killed  himself.  For  two  months  he  left  me  without 

rd. 

Getting  very  anxious,  I  wrote  to  him  telling  him 
among  other  things  of  a  comedy  which  I  was  project- 
tor  the  ensuing  winter.       I  transcribe   his   reply 
ually :     '  So   my   secretive   friend    is   finishing   a 
comedy  of  which  until  now  he  had  never  broach r 

1  to  me.  To  punish  him  I  ought  to  have  gone 
to  the  first  ni^ht  with  a  whistle,  but  honestly  I  could 
not  very  well  be  present  at  that  pivmuiv. 

'///^  to  kill  myself  togetlur  with 
\     you   could   see   me,  you   would   not 
know  me,  for  my  ha:  now.     On  a 


68  S/.rtr    Years  of  Recollections 

plausible  pretext  I  have  managed  to  stow  away  in  a 
small  pavilion  at  the  end  of  the  garden  about  thirty 
fagots  of  wood  and  several  bottles  of  turpentine.  At 
eleven  o'clock  to-morrow  night,  we'll  walk  into  that 
pavilion,  she  and  I,  with  our  minds  made  up  to  die 
and  agreed  as  to  the  necessity  of  doing  so.  I'll  pour 
the  turpentine  on  the  fagots  and  set  light  to  them, 
after  which  I'll  blow  her  brains  out  with  a  pistol  and 
do  the  same  thing  for  myself.  Goodbye,  may  you  be 
happy  in  this  world,  I  am  going  to  find  out  whether 
there  is  another.' 

What  had  happened  during  the  time  I  had  had 
no  tidings  from  him  ?  What  had  been  the  terrible 
phases  of  that  tragic  passion  ?  Why  had  his  hair 
grown  white,  and  why  did  he  call  her  his  execu- 
tioner? More  than  bewildered  myself,  I  went  post 
haste  to  Compiegne  :  everything  was  over.  I  gathered 
from  the  servants  and  neighbours  a  few  particulars  of 
their  last  days,  which  after  a  lapse  of  more  than 
half-a-century,  I  cannot  write  down  without  my  pen 
trembling  between  my  fingers. 

M.  Leroux  had  made  up  his  mind  to  put  an  end 
to  everything  by  committing  suicide.  In  order  to 
have  his  hands  free  he  told  her  to  go  to  Paris  to 
make  some  purchases,  but  she  suspected  his  inten- 
tions, and  vowed  that  henceforth  she  would  not  stir 
from  his  side  for  a  single  moment,  being  determined 

to  die  with  him. 

• 

M.  Leroux  being  very  fond  of  shooting  was  neces- 


;     Years  of  Recollections  69 

sarily  a  great  walker  ;  she  on  the  contrary  was  very 
delicate  and  tiny,  and  like  the  majority  of  women 
born  and  bred  in  Paris,  unable  to  stand  the  fatigue 

couple  of  hours'  walk.  One  morning,  soon  after 
daybreak,  while  he  thought  her  still  asleep,  he  started 
for  the  forest,  his  gun  loaded  with  ball  cartridge. 
Five  minutes  afterwards,  at  the  bend  of  a  path,  he 
found  her  waiting  for  him.  In  a  kind  of  frenzy,  he 
started  at  a  gallop  across  the  woods  ;  she  followed 
him,  panting  for  breath,  almost  choking,  lascerating 
her  feet  among  the  brambles,  but  keeping  up  witli 
him  nevertheless,  never  losing  sight  of  him.  For 
full  an  hour  they  went  on,  at  the  end  of  which  she 
stumbled,  but  still  clinging  to  him  and  saying  that 
she  would  not  leave  him,  and  that  if  he  wanted  to 
kill  himself,  he  would  have  to  kill  her  first.  On  that 
day  they  conceived  their  plan.  Their  last  hours  on 
earth  must  have  been  terrible.  They  sat  down  to 
breakfast  at  twelve  and  remained  there  opposite  one 
another,  gloomy  and  silent.  When  the  servants  came 
to  lay  the  cloth  for  dinner,  the  breakfast  had  not 
been  touched.  At  nine  o'clock,  M.  Leroux  told 
them  that  the}-  might  retire  for  the  night,  and  the 
unhappy  couple  were  alone  once  more,  with  one 

iry  candle  between  them.     At  eleven  one  of  the 

.:iits  heard  someone  stir  in  the  dining-room,  he 

jumped  out  of  bed,  opened  his  window  and  looked 

out.     He  saw  the  window  which  almost  reached  the 

.anlrn  1>  nrd,  and  his   master  and 


7  o  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

mistress  climb  out  of  it.  Then  they  went  straight  to 
the  kennel  of  a  big  dog,  unfastened  him  and  took 
his  chain.  After  which  M.  Leroux  locked  the  front 
door  and  flung  the  key  over  the  wall.  In  another 
moment,  the  couple  went  up  the  large  avenue  of 
lime  trees  leading  to  a  small  summer  house.  The 
servant  caught  a  glimpse  of  them  now  and  then 
through  the  gaps  in  the  trees;  as  they  crossed  the 
paths,  fitful  patches  of  moonlight  filtering  through 
the  branches  gave  them  the  appearance  of  a  couple 
of  spectres,  or  rather  of  a  couple  of  convicts,  for  the 
dog's  chain  was  fastened  to  the  right  wrist  of  the 
one  and  the  left  wrist  of  the  other.  At  last  they 
disappeared  from  his  view  altogether,  and  after  listen- 
ing for  a  little  while,  and  hearing  no  further  sound  the 
man  went  back  to  bed  and  fell  asleep.  An  hour 
later,  perhaps,  he  awoke  with  a  start,  the  dog  was 
barking  violently  and  there  was  a  crash  of  falling 
timbers,  accompanied  by  the  crackling  of  burning 
wood.  The  pavilion  was  on  fire.  He  rushed  down, 
the  neighbours  scaled  the  walls,  and  appeared  upon 
the  scene  almost  as  soon  as  he,  but  too  late,  the 
place  was  simply  ablaze.  Among  the  ashes  and 
charred  posts  was  found  part  of  the  shoulder  of  the 
young  woman  and  a  wrist  with  the  end  of  the  iron 
chain  round  it.  The  rest  of  those  two  human  beings, 
worthy  of  pity  in  spite  of  their  error,  had  disappeared 
in  the  flames  and  with  them  the  explanation  of  that 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  7 1 

enigmatical  and  terrible   phrase,  'To-morrow   I  am 
going  to  kill  myself  with  my  executioner.' 


Apparently  we  have  drifted  far  away  from  my  poor 
play  ;  apparently  only,  for  we  have  just  got  back  to 
it.  The  tragic  story  related  above  had  recurred  to 
me  in  all  its  details  at  the  unexpected  sight  of 
Leroux's  letter  among  some  old  papers.  The  story 
haunted  me  all  day,  and  towards  evening,  by  one 
of  those  phenomena  of  the  imagination,  though 
frequent  enough  with  dramatic  writers,  the  real 
drama  got  gradually  mixed  up  in  my  mind  with 
the  fictitious  one,  the  denouement  of  which  was  per- 

ntly  eluding  my  grasp.  One  of  the  three  per- 
sonages stood  out  from  the  other  two  and  began  to 
form  a  part  of  my  group  of  actors.  It  was  the 

mage  of  the  colonel,  whose  answer :  '  No, 
monsieur,  I  will  not  fight  you,'  struck  me  all  at  once 

he  summary  of  a  whole  character,  as  the  germ 
of  a  dramatic  part,  as  the  starting  point  of  an 
altogether  new  situation  from  which  two  acts  mi^lit 
be  evolved.  Brimful  of  my  idea,  I  went  post  haste 
to  Goubaux's,  he  was  away  from  home,  he  was  on 
duty  as  a  national  guard  at  the  Ministry  of  Finances. 
To  the  Ministry  of  Finances  I  ran,  Goubaux  was  on 

(I.       I    tell    him    of  my    find,   which    he   thinks 

irable.  '  In  that  case,'  I  say,  '  let  us  set  to  work 
at  once.'  '  I  can't,1  he  ivplics,  '  I  have  to  keep  the 


72  Si.vty   Years  of  Recollections 

dogs  away,  and  challenge  the  people  who  want  to 
go  in.'  'What  does  that  matter,  it  will  be  all  the 
more  amusing.'  And  forthwith  we  set  to  planning 
our  act,  he  striding  up  and  down,  his  rifle  on  his 
shoulder,  I  running  by  his  side  on  the  pavement, 
our  conversation  interrupted  every  now  and  then  by 
the  '  No  admittance  here/  of  the  sentry. 

By  the  time  they  came  to  relieve  him,  our  plan  had 
taken  shape,  and  two  months  after  that  our  piece  was 
finished.  In  another  two  months  we  read  it  at 
the  Comedie-Frangaise,  where  it  was  unanimously 
and  enthusiastically  accepted.  Mdlle.  Mars  under- 
took the  principal  part  and  on  the  6th  June  1838 
I  had  the  satisfaction  of  reading  on  the  playbills: 
'  To-night  for  the  first  time,  "  Louise  de  Lignerolles," 
a  drama  in  five  acts,  and  in  prose.'  My  heart  beat 
very  fast  when  I  read  that  title  on  the  walls,  not 
so  fast,  though,  as  when  I  read  that  of  '  Le  Soleil 
Couchant' 

The  predictions  with  regard  to  'Louise  de  Ligne- 
rolles' were  more  favourable.  I  had  gathered  two 
very  valuable  ones  the  night  before  at  the  dress 
rehearsal ;  the  first  from  Casimir  Delvaigne.  *  It  is 
very  brutal,  but  striking  ;  it  will  succeed,'  he  said,  when 
the  rehearsal  was  over.  My  second  prophet  was 
an  old  actor  who  played  the  minor  comic  parts.  His 
name  was  Faure.  In  his  young  days,  he  had  given 
proof  of  great  courage.  It  was  at  Nantes  in  1794,  at 
the  time  when  Carrier  had  the  people  drowned  in 


.V/ltv  s  of  Recollections  73 

batches  in  the  Loire.  Entering  the  Hotel-de-Ville 
one  day,  he  caught  sight  of  the  bust  of  that  fiend,  and 
snatching  it  from  its  plinth,  he  flung  it  to  the  ground 
where  it  was  shattered  to  pieces.  '  That's  what  ought 
to  be  done  to  the  wretch  himself,'  he  shouted.  He 
wa>  advised  to  leave  the  town  as  quickly  as  he  could  ; 
and  he  came  back  to  Paris,  where  he  resumed  his 
very  modest  position  at  the  Comedie-Francaise. 
1  Monsieur/  he  said  after  the  dress  rehearsal  of  our 
drama,  'you  may  make  your  mind  easy.  Your 
success  is  assured  ;  all  the  petticoats  will  come  and 
see  your  piece,  and  wherever  the  petticoats  go  the 
breeches  invariably  follow.' 

Both  predictions  were  realised  to  the  letter.  At 
midnight  on  the  6th  June  '38  the  names  of  Prosper 
Goubaux  and  Ernest  Legouve,  '  the  authors  of  the 
drama  we  have  just  had  the  honour  of  performing 
before  you,'  to  quote  Firmin's  own  words  were 
greeted  with  unanimous  applause.  I  had  taken  my 
nge  for  the  failure  of  '  Le  Soleil  Couchant '  and 
could  claim  the  title  of  dramatic  author. 


CHAPTER  III 

The  four  Principal  Interpreters  of  'Louise  de  Lignerolles ' ;  Mdlle. 
Mars,  Firmin,  and  Geffroy  Joanny.— The  combined  Ages  of  the 
two  Lovers. — Firmin. — Firmin  compared  to  his  Successor  ;  De- 
launay. — Firrnin's  Appearance  and  Gait. — His  Style  as  compared 
to  that  of  Delaunay.— The  Byplay  in  Love.— Avowals  Then  and 
Now. — No  more  Kneeling  at  the  beloved  Woman's  feet. — Firmin's 
Want  of  Memory. — His  Devices  to  minimise  the  evil  effects  of  it. 
— His  last  Years  and  Death. — Joanny. — His  Peculiarities. — His 
Punctuality. — Expects  the  same  from  his  Fellow- Actors. — 'I  have 
a  Chicken  for  Dinner  which  cannot  wait,  etc.' — His  Ante-Theatrical 
Career. — His  magnificent  Style. — His  Politeness. — Geffroy. — M. 
Legouve  selects  him  to  play  a  part  in  his  Piece  in  preference  to 
his  older  and  more  experienced  fellow-actors. — He  becomes 
Famous  in  one  evening. — Mdlle.  Mars. — 'Was  she  Pretty?' — 
'  Am  I  Pretty  ? ' — Beauty  On  and  Off  the  Stage. — Refuses  to  play 
any  but  Young  Girl's  Parts. — Her  Reasons. — Her  Artistic  Merits. 
— Her  Love  Affairs. — An  Anecdote  of  her  Early  Life. — Mdlle. 
Contat  and  the  Black  Thread. — The  Use  of  Slang  on  the  con- 
temporary stage. — Sardou's  first  Attempt  to  introduce  it. — Mdlle. 
Mars  as  a  Dramatic  Adviser. — The  Success  of  '  Louise  de  Ligne- 
rolles.'— Mdlle.  Mars  afraid  of  Mdlle.  Rachel. — Her  reluctance  to 
tell  her  Age.— Her  last  Years.— Her  Deathbed.— Exit.— '  The 
Ruling  Passion  strong  in  Death.' 

I 

WHEN  the  curtain  rose  for  the  first  time  on  '  Louise 
de  Lignerolles/  the  two  lovers  of  the  play  counted  a 
hundred  and  twenty-five  years  of  existence  between 
them.  Yet,  I  may  safely  say,  that  I  have  never  had 


Years  of  Recollections  75 

t\vo  such  young  interpreters,  if  by  youth  we  under- 
stand spirited,  passionate  and  heartfelt  acting. 

There  is  a  vast  difference  between  the  Comedie- 
Frangaise  of  1838  and  that  of  1887  and  all  the  ad- 
vantages are  certainly  not  on  the  side  of  the  contem- 
porary organisation.  At  present,  even  in  comedy, 
the  scenery  and  dresses  are  more  carefully  looked  to, 
the  animation  of  a  drawing-room,  the  movement  of 
the  minor  characters  is  better,  there  is  greater  anxiety 
to  catch  the  true  accent  of  every  day  life,  but  what 
has  become  of  the  diction,  the  elegant  manners,  the 
refined  language,  and  the  hundred  and  one  things 
which  made  the  Comedie-Francaise  the  faithful 
image  of  French  society  as  it  existed  in  years  gone 
by.  I  will  endeavour  to  signalise  some  of  those 
differences  by  showing  four  of  the  great  artists  at 
work  :  namely,  Mdlle.  Mars,  Firmin,  Geffroy  and 
Joanny. 

t  us  start  with  Firmin,  whom   I  cannot  portray 

r  than  by  comparing  him  to  our  dearly  missed 

Delaunay.      They   had  many  qualities  in   common, 

and  first  of  all  the  look,  or  it  would  be  better,  perhaps, 

to  term  it  the  glance.     On  the  stage  we  must  not 

confound  the  look  with  the  eyes.      One  may  have 

ionks  with  very  small  eyes,  and  per 

>*,  one  may  have   very  large  eyes  and   still  be 

utterly  lacking  in   that   flash    of  light   which   springs 

from  the  pupil,  spreads  in  one  moment  throughout 

tin    house  and  as  it  illumines    it.     Both   had 


76  StA-ti'    Years  of  Recollections 


dazzling  white  teeth,  which  seemed  to  sparkle  like 
the  eyes,  and  to  smile  like  the  lips.  Shorter  than 
Delaunay  and  without  so  shapely  a  figure,  less 
elegant  in  its  movements,  Firmin,  with  his  head 
slightly  '  stuck  '  forward,  his  body  swaying  more  or 
less  on  his  legs,  and  beating  his  palms  nervously 
against  one  another,  had  not  the  charming  grace  of 
Perdican,  but  the  impassioned  fire  of  his  acting,  the 
electrical  effect  of  his  voice  made  up  for  it  all.  To 
find  a  fit  comparison  to  him  we  must  go  back  to  the 
great  tenors  such  as  Rubini  and  David,  who  not 
only  touched  one's  soul,  but  made  every  nerve  in 
one's  body  quiver  like  the  strings  of  a  harp.  Im- 
passioned as  was  Delaunay,  Firmin  had  something 
more  of  '  the  devil  in  him,'  and  was  with  it  all  as 
light  as  a  bird.  There  are  some  lines  from  '  Le  Mis- 
anthrope '  in  which  piece  I  heard  them  both,  in  which 
both  delighted  me,  and  in  which  I  was  enabled  to 
appreciate  the  similarity  of  and  the  difference  be- 
tween their  respective  talents.  They  are  the  lines  of 
the  Marquis  (Acaste)  at  the  beginning  of  the  third 
act.  In  order  to  explain  my  idea,  I  had  better  quote 
the  verses. 

'  Parbleu  !     Je  ne  vois  pas  lorsque  je  m'examine, 
Oil  prendre  aucun  sujet  d'avoir  I'ame  chagrine, 
J'ai  du  bien,  je  suis  jeune.  et  sors  d'une  maison 
Qui  peut  se  dire  noble  avec  quelque  raison  ; 
Et  je  crois  par  le  rang  que  me  donne  ma  race, 
Qu'il  est  fort  peu  d'emplois  dont  je  ne  sois  en  passe. 
Pour  le  creur,  dont  surtout  nous  devons  faire  cas, 
On  sait,  sans  vanite,  que  je  n'en  manque  pas  ; 
Et  1'on  m'a  vu  pousser,  dans  le  monde,  une  affaire 


AY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  77 

D'une  assez  vigoureuse  et  gaillarde  maniere. 

Pour  de  1  esprit,  j'en  ai,  sans  doute,  et  du  bon  gout, 

A  juger  sans  etude  et  raisonner  de  tout ; 

lire  aux  nouveautes,  dont  je  suis  idolatre, 
Figure  de  savant  sur  les  banes  du  theatre, 
Y  decider  en  chef,  et  faire  du  ft 
A  tous  les  beaux  endroits  qui  meritent  de- 
Je  suis  assez  adroit ;  j'ai  bon  air,  bonne  mine, 
Les  dents  belles  surtout,  et  la  taille  fort  fine, 
Quand  a  se  mettre  bien,  je  crois,  sans  me  flatter, 

n  serait  mal  venu  de  me  le  disputer. 
Je  me  vois  dans  1'estime  autant  qu'on  y  puisse  Stre. ; 
Fort  aime  du  beau  sexe,  et  bien  aupres  du  maitre  ; 
Je  crois  qu'avec  cela,  mon  cher  marquis,  jc 
Qu'on  peut,  par  tout  pays,  etre  content  de  soi.' 

This  charming  piece,  on  Delaunay's  lips,  sparkled 
like  a  lark's  mirror  in  the  sun.*  So  many  lines,  so  many 
facets.  The  faintest  intention,  the  vaguest  hint,  the 
most  delicate  nuance  of  the  author's  meaning  was 
elucidated  and  put  into  proper  relief.  Firmin,  on  the 
other  hand,  laid  stress  upon  nothing,  did  not  stop 
to  accentuate  or  emphasise,  but  carried  the  whole  in 
a  single  movement  which  was  like  a  flutter  of  wings, 
like  the  buz/ing  flight  of  a  swarm  of  bees. 

Firmin  had  made  himself  famous  by  the  manner 

in    which    he   told    a   woman  of  his  love.     No   one 

could   fling  himself  at  the  feet  of  a  woman  with  as 

much  passion  as  he.     Nowadays,  men  no  longer  fling 

themselves  at  a  woman's  feet     1   believe  I  was  the 

•  Iramatic  author  who  was  bold  enough  to  intro- 

that  bit  of  pantomime  in  a  comedy.     Bressant, 

I-  author  uses  • 
with  u  ;ire   caught.      I  have  seen  them  used  in  I 

they  are  employed  in  Eng,  seen  them 


78  Si.r/i'    }  't'tirs  of  Recollections 

when  telling  Mme.  Madeleine  Brohan  of  his  love  in 
'  Par  droit  de  conquete,'  gracefully  knelt  before  her, 
and  at  the  same  time  electrified  the  audience  by  his 
passionate  pleading.  When  a  few  years  later,  M. 
Febvre  assumed  the  part  he  told  me  that  he  could 
not  possibly  follow  Bressant's  example,  that  he  did 
not  know  how  to  set  about  that  kind  of  thing,  that  he 
would  simply  feel  ridiculous — and  he  was  right  The 
taste  'for  that  kind  of  thing'  had  changed.  To  throw 
one's  self  at  a  woman's  feet,  to  kiss  her  hand,  to  pay 
her  a  compliment,  all  '  that  kind  of  thing '  dated  from 
a  period  when  love  was  accompanied  by  respect,  when 
a  certain  show  of  gallantry  was  an  essential  element 
in  the  act  of  'paying  one's  court.'  I  defy  any  man,  in 
our  own  days,  to  make  '  a  declaration  of  love '  on  the 
stage,  as  we  understood  it  then.  The  public  would 
split  its  sides  with  laughter,  and  the  young  woman  or 
girl  to  whom  it  was  addressed  would  follow  suit, 
if  she  did  not  take  the  initiative.  In  order  to  convince 
her  of  your  affection,  you  must  provoke  her  more  or 
less,  I  had  almost  said  treat  her  more  or  less  cava- 
lierly. If  one  had  proposed  such  a  scene  to  Firmin 
he  would  have  said  like  M.  Febvre :  '  /  do  not  know 
how  to  set  about  that  kind  of  tiling? 

It  seems  scarcely  credible  but  this  very  brilliant 
actor  had  no  memory,  When  enacting  a  long  scene 
at  the  far  end  of  the  stage,  he  was  obliged  to  have  a 
second  prompter  somewhere  within  earshot.  He 
invented  the  strangest  devices  in  order  to  refresh  his 


}  'ears  of  Recollections  79 

memory.  Sometimes  he  would  select  this  or  that 
armchair,  at  others,  part  of  the  design  of  the  carpet, 
then  again  this  or  that  lamp  to  help  him  out  with  a 
hemistich  or  a  line  which  was  sure  to  escape  him  at 
the  moment  he  wanted  it  How  did  he  manage  to 
suit  his  spirited,  his  impressive  style  to  those  fright- 
ful lapses  of  memory  ?  How  ?  Simply  by  making 
those  lapses  contribute  to  those  bursts  of  passion. 
Like  Mol£,  whose  memory  was  as  defective  as  his, 
he  drew  from  his  struggle  with  the  text  indescribable 
effects ;  he  appeared  to  be  dragging  his  words  from 
his  very  entrails,  his  stammering  and  stuttering 
simply  became  so  much  quivering,  headlong  passion. 
His  impetuosity  was,  after  all,  so  thoroughly  natural 
that  during  the  run  of  *  Hernani '  the  slightest  whisper 

ist  the  piece  sufficed  to  call  it  forth.  Though 
thoroughly  worn  out  with  the  duties  of  this  crushing 
he  would  start  to  his  feet  and  overwhelm  the 
hostile  critic  with  the  most  striking  passages  from  his 
rdle,  rendered,  if  possible,  with  additional  fire  and 
spirit.  Odd  to  relate,  this  excitable,  highly  strung 

are  spent   his   old   age   like  a  philosopher  and 
ended  up  like  a  stoic.     Having  retired  from  the  st 
he  lived  for  many  years  in  a  small  country  cottage  on 
the   banks   of  the  Seine  near  Coudray,  by  hin 
smiling  and  contented,  spending  his  days  in  reading 
Plutarch.     'When  my  friVmls  come  to  see  me  I  am 

:ite<l.    When  they  stay  away  I  manage  todowith- 

:hem,    lie  said.     When  deep  in  fc] 


8o  .S7.r/r    Years  of  Recollect io)is 

felt  that  his  sight  began  to  fail  him,  he  could  read  no 
longer,  his  legs  refused  to  carry  him  and  a  profound 
but  mute  melancholy  took  possession  of  his  soul  and 
showed  itself  in  his  features,  and  one  day  without 
having  ever  uttered  a  word  of  complaint,  he  painfully 
and  slowly  got  on  to  the  window  sill  in  his  drawing- 
room,  which  was  situated  on  the  first  floor  and  flung 
himself  head  foremost  on  to  the  pavement  below, 
just  as  quietly,  in  fact,  as  a  follower  of  Zeno  would 
have  plunged  a  dagger  into  his  breast. 

Joanny,  who  like  Firmin,  contributed  greatly  to  the 
success  of  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles/  was  a  singular 
artist  in  more  senses  than  one.  To  begin  with,  he  al- 
ways knew  the  whole  of  his  part  at  the  first  rehearsal 
of  no  matter  what  new  work.  He  brought  his  manu- 
script in  his  pocket  to  mark  the  corrections  and 
alterations,  but  from  the  very  first  day  the  whole  of 
the  text  was  indelibly  stamped  on  his  memory. 

A  vast  difference  assuredly  between  this  principle  of 
being  *  letter  perfect'  from  the  very  beginning,  and  the 
theory  of  some  great  actors  of  to-day  who  pretend  that 
a  part  should  be  learned  on  the  stage  during  rehearsal, 
and  during  rehearsal  only.  Who  is  right?  He,  or 
they  ?  Perhaps  both  :  it  is  simply  a  question  of 
school  and  period.  Formerly  when  diction  was  con- 
sidered the  first  and  foremost  thing,  Joanny's  method 
was  the  better.  To-day  the  dialogue  is  as  it  were 
mixed  up  with  the  gestures,  the  position  of  the  actor 
on  the  stage  thoroughly  modifies  the  accent  of  the 


•  'ears  of  Recollections  8 1 

phrases,  actors  do  not  only  play  a  part,  they  '  walk  it,' 
I  was  tempted  to  say  '  run  it.1  In  Sardou's  '  Bour- 
geois de  Pontarcy '  ('  Duty '  in  the  English  version),  I 
have  heard  and  seen  Mdlle.  Bartet  and  M.  Berton 
exchange  the  most  tender  and  purest  protestations  of 
love,  walking  all  the  while  round  the  furniture.  I  feel 
bound  to  add  that  the  whole  of  it  was  accomplished 
with  infinite  grace  and  charm.  Admitting  that  kind 
of  pantomime  to  be  the  right  thing,  the  method  of 
learning  one's  part  while  enacting  it  at  rehearsal  must 
be  the  better  one,  but  when  the  characters  in  the  play 
were  animated  without  being  agitated,  Joanny's 
method  was  preferable. 

His    second    original    trait    was    his    punctuality. 

Having  been  a  sailor  in  his  early  days,  (he  had  lost 

fingers  of  his  left  hand  in  battle),  he  made  his 

•arance  at  rehearsal  to  the  minute,  just  as  he  would 

done  on  the  fo'c'sle  or  quarter-deck  of  his  ship. 

But  if  he  kept  no  one  waiting  for  him,  he  equally 

declined  to  wait  for  any  one.     I  remember  perfectly 

well  his  pulling  out  his  watch  one  day  at  a  rehearsal 

of '  Louise  de  Lignerolles.'     We  were  in  the  middle  of 

but  that  did  not  affect  him.     '  One  moment,' 

he   said    very   quickly,  '  it's   five  o'clock  ;    if  we  had 

begun  at  the  right  hour  we  should  have  finished  long 

ago.     My  housekeeper  has  got  me  a  chicken  for  my 

dinner,  I    won't   let    my  housekeeper  or  the  chicken 

-10   I  wish  you  a  pleasant  afternoon.'     I  wonder 

what  poor  Joanny  would  say  nowadays  to  the  want 
VOL,    u 


82  .SY.r/r    }'<w;-.v  of  Rcco/lcctious 

of  punctuality  which  has  become  one  of  the  traditions 
of 'the  House  of  Moliere,'  where  every  watch  is  half- 
an-hour  slow.  The  old  hands  still  manage  to  be 
punctual,  but  the  young  ones,  and  especially  the 
women,  seem  to  take  a  pride  in  keeping  people  waiting. 
Who  is  to  blame  ?  Not  one  in  particular  ;  it  is  simply 
the  prevailing  spirit.  The  idea  of  submitting  to 
discipline,  of  being  bound  by  regulations  has  gone 
out  of  fashion.  People  no  longer  care  to  be  part  of  a 
whole,  there  is  no  longer  a  milky  way  in  the  domain 
of  art ;  everybody  wishes  to  be  a  star,  and  as  such 
moves  at  his  own  sweet  will,  rotates  by  himself,  or  if 
anything  makes  others  revolve  around  him.  I  have 
got  an  idea  that  this  system  is  no  more  suitable  on 
the  earth  than  it  would  be  in  the  skies. 

Finally,  Joanny  had  a  third  peculiarity,  he  lisped. 
Of  all  the  drawbacks  to  good  diction,  lisping  is  un- 
doubtedly the  one  lending  itself  most  to  laughter. 
Well,  this  lisper,  this  methodical,  systematical  creature 
was  one  of  the  most  heartstirring,  original  and  poeti- 
cal artists  I  have  known.  Unfortunately  for  him,  he 
was  the  contemporary  of  Talma.  The  proximity  of 
men  of  genius  is  fatal  to  the  man  of  talent.  The 
former  monopolise  all  the  available  glory  of  their 
time.  The  splendid  light  they  shed  reduces  to  a 
mere  flicker  everything  that  but  for  them  would  be 
considered  brilliant  Joanny,  relegated  to  the  Oddon 
for  a  long  while,  only  entered  the  Com&die-Francjiise 
after  the  death  of  his  illustrious  rival,  and  suddenly 


.SV.r.;  s  of  Recollections  83 

;;ned  a  foremost  position.  Who  does  not 
member  his  Tyrrel  in  '  Les  Enfants  d'Edouard,'  his 
Coictier  in  'Louis  XI,'  and  above  all,  his  Ruy 
Gomez  in  '  HernamV  His  magnificent  white  hair 
looked  like  a  halo.  He  disliked  wigs.  '  Wigs  are 
made  of  dead  hair,'  he  said, '  only  the  hair  growing  on 
our  heads  and  nourished  with  our  blood  can  associ- 
ate itself  with  the  play  of  our  features.  -It  enacts 
our  parts  as  we  enact  them.' 

A  the  father  of  Louise  de  Lignerolles,  he  aroused 
the  enthusiasm  of  Mdlle.  Mars  to  such  a  degree  that 
one  day  while  rehearsing  the  fifth  act,  she  said  to  me, 
*  Do  you  hear  the  old  lion  ? '  The  praise  was  the 
more  gratifying  to  me  inasmuch  as  I  had,  to  a  certain 
extent,  contributed  to  that  magnificent  roar.  During 
the  first  rehearsals  I  had  not  been  particularly  pleased 
with  Joanny  in  that  scene.  I  considered  that  he  did 
lisplay  all  tl  ;y  required  by  the  situation. 

Hut  how  was  I  to  tell  him  so?     I  was  but  thirty  and 
he  had   white  hair.     I  had    not  the  courage.     Then 

myself  of  going  to   him    after    the 
ind  while  pretending  to  be  enraptured  with 
of  the   SGene,   to  repeat  the  whole   of  it, 
i lit\    as  I   wanted  it 
•  1  very  attentively,  looked  at 
:ig  a  word    and 

at    r.  b  llcony,      When   Joanny 

to    th.v  ..ictly    c\ 

tonation  turning  to  me  and  l> 


84  Si.rSr    Years  of  Recollections 

ing  with  infinite  grace,  he  said,  *  Will  that  do,  M. 
1'auteur  ? ' 

I  should  indeed  be  wanting  in  gratitude  if  I  did 
not  say  a  few  words  about  M.  Geffroy,  before  speak- 
ing of  Mdlle.  Mars.  To  begin  with,  I  have  a  weak- 
ness for  his  talent  and  for  a  very  good  reason ;  I,  as  it 
were,  guessed  that  it  was  in  him  before  anyone  else. 
The  part  of  M.  de  Givry,  the  colonel  who  refuses  to 
'go  out'  had  met  with  enthusiastic  approval  at  the 
reading  of  the  play,  they  offered  us  ever  so  many 
societaires  and  tried  artists  to  interpret  it.  '  No/  I 
repeated  obstinately,  '  I  want  the  young  fellow  I  saw 
in  '  La  Famille  de  Lusigny,'  he  alone  is  able  to  give 
with  the  necessary  pluck  the  words  of  Colonel  Givry 
when  he  appears  upon  the  scene  for  the  first  time  in 
the  fourth  act. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  line  involved  a  very,  very 
great  risk.  The  first  words  he  had  to  say  to  Henri  de 
Lignerolles  were,  *  Monsieur,  you  are  the  lover  of  my 
wife.'  Nowadays  such  a  commencement  would 
scarcely  be  considered  very  daring,  but  it  was  dif- 
ferent in  1838.  I  remember  well  enough  the  murmur 
of  revolt  that  ran  through  the  house.  The  pit  rose 
as  one  man,  or  rather  like  a  horse  that  gets  on 
its  hind  legs.  It  was  only  what  I  expected.  During 
the  rehearsals,  all  the  actors,  Mdlle  Mars  included, 
had  entreated  me  in  vain  to  *  cut  the  line.'  '  You  are 
compromising  the  piece.'  '  I  don't  care,'  was  my 
answer.  '  You  are  virtually  invoking  a  perfect  storm 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  85 

of  hisses.'  '  I  don't  care.'  c  But  at  any  rate,  do  pre- 
pare your  public  for  that  exhibition  of  brutality.' 
'No,  there's  no  time  to  do  that.  We  are  in  the 
fourth  act  and  \ve  must  define  the  colonel's  character 
with  one  line.  That  line  has  an  immense  advantage, 
it  is  the  character  "boiled  down"  to  one  sentence. 
The  whole  of  the  part  is  contained  in  it.  The  public 
will  probably  hiss  for  the  moment,  but  you'll  see 
what  they'll  do  afterwards.' 

My  view  turned  out  to  be  the  correct  one.  I  had 
instinctively  established  two  rules,  essential  under 
such  conditions.  The  first  is  that  a  daring  thing 
should  be  done  boldly.  Precautions  in  such  a  case 
only  tend  to  put  the  public  on  its  guard,  and  show 
that  the  author  is  afraid  of  it.  Now,  it  is  a  fact  that 
a  theatrical  audience  is  simply  like  any  other  gather- 
ing of  men,  it  is  impossible  to  manage  it  except  by 
showing  a  bold  front.  The  only  way  to  impose  on 
it  is  by  imposing  on  one's  self.  The  second  rule, 
which  since  then  Scribe  has  loudly  proclaimed,  is  that 
a  theatrical  effect  is  produced  not  by  a  blow  but  by 
the  counter-bit  >\\ .  I  n  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles '  the  blow 
had  been  very  violent,  but  at  the  fourth  line  after  it 
came  the  counter-blow  which  served,  as  it  were,  as  a 
vaulting-plank  by  means  of  which  to  jump  clean  over 
the  forin.-r.  When  M.  de  Givry  brutally  claimed 
his  \\il\-,  hidden  in  Henri  de  Lignerolles'  rooms,  the 
lover  said,  '  And  if  do  you  think  I 

ild  be  coward  enough  to  give  her   up?1 — 'You 


86  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

have  been  coward  enough  to  corrupt  her,'  retorted 
the  colonel.  And  this  telling  retort — Goubaux's 
invention,  not  mine — was  the  signal  for  deafening 
applause  which  continued  throughout.  The  part 
was  one  prolonged,  triumphant  success  of  which  M. 
Geffroy  had  his  well-deserved  share,  for  he  showed 
himself  in  advance  of  his  time  by  that  careful  attention 
to  detail  in  the  matter  of  dress,  manner  and  bearing, 
which  constituted  one  of  his  great  talents.  With  his 
heavy  moustache,  closely  cropped  reddish  hair,  turn- 
ing grey  and  standing  on  end,  his  cavalry  stride,  his 
voice  cutting  through  one  like  steel,  his  brief  answers 
that  reminded  one  of  the  crack  of  a  whip,  he  posi- 
tively made  one  feel  afraid.  You  should  have  seen 
him  when  Henri  de  Lignerolles  said,  *  Monsieur  de 
Givry,  you  are  a  coward.'  Taking  a  long  breath,  he 
burst  into  a  low  sarcastic  chuckle,  and  simply  an- 
swered, *  Do  you  think  so  ? '  At  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  M.  Geffroy  was  a  '  mere  hope/  at  midnight 
he  was  an  actor  of  acknowledged  talent. 

II 

'  Was  she  .  pretty  ? '  That  is  generally  the  first 
question  people  ask  you  when  you  happen  to  speak 
of  an  artist  of  former  days.  Well,  Mdlle.  Mars  was 
pretty,  she  was  even  charming.  So  charming,  in  fact, 
that  Scribe  in  'Valerie'  dared  to  put  on  her  own 
lips  the  words,  'Ami  pretty  ?  '  She  was  close  upon 
forty-five  then,  and  the  public  replied  to  her  by 


s  of  Recollections  87 

applauding  to  a  man.  That  applause,  I  feel  bound 
ty,  was  due  to  a  certain  extent  to  the  spirit  of 
the  times.  At  present  an  author  would  scarcely 
care  to  risk  such  an  experiment  ;  it  would  want  the 
gallants  of  the  pit  of  the  early  twenties  to  score  a 
similar  success.  I  will  go  further  still  and  say  that 
without  the  '  optical  conditions '  of  the  playhouse,  the 
experiment  might  not  have  succeeded  then.  There 
are  what  we  call  stage  beauties.  Mdlle.  Mars,  in 
spite  of  her  handsome  eyes  and  magnificent  teeth, 
would  not  have  passed  muster,  off  the  stage,  as  a 
good-looking  woman.  Her  complexion  was  neither 
one  thing  nor  the  other,  her  nose  was  rather  coarse, 
her  head  somewhat  large,  and  her  figure  more  or  less 
short.  But  the  stage  is  a  magician  with  the  power 
of  transforming  everything.  If  it  be  true  that  extra- 
refined  features  become  somewhat  indistinct,  it  is  also 
true  that  too  strongly  marked  traits  become  more  or 
less  toned  down.  The  stage  both  magnifies  and 
reduces  ;  it  has  the  effect  of  harmonising  things,  and 
owing  to  the  optical  delusions  prevailing  on  the  stage, 
Mdlle.  Mars  remained  for  nearly  fifty  years  the  model 
irl  and  young  woman  behind  the  footlights. 
1 1<  i  successes  were  scored  in  young  girls'  parts. 

She  continued  to  play  Agnes  (in  Moliere's  '  Iicole  des 
')  when  she  was  over  forty.     Scribe  thought 
IKT  '  a  wonderful  turn  '  by  writing  for  her 
tile  part  of  ayounggirl  who  having  entered  the  convent 
at  si-  id  being  compelled  to  leave  it  a|  forty, 


88  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

during  the  Reign  of  Terror,  had  to  face  the  world 
with  all  the  innocent,  candid,  unsophisticated  inex- 
perienced ways  of  the  *  bread  and  butter  miss '  thick 
upon  her,  with  the  soul  of  a  child,  and  the  body  of 
a  matured  woman.  The  conception  was  very  ingenu- 
ous, the  part  absolutely  charming. 

1  I'll  have  none  of  it,'  exclaimed  Mdlle.  Mars,  '  I'll 
have  none  of  it  I  should  be  downright  horrid  in  it. 
Your  two  score  years  would  affect  my  face,  my 
movements,  my  diction.  Pray,  do  not  make  a 
mistake,  I  am  not  refusing  the  part  from  womanly 
vanity,  but  from  sheer^  artistic  conscientiousness.  I 
can  only  be  myself  on  the  stage  when  I  feel  that  I  am 
young,  when  I  am  supposed  to  be  young,  when  I 
know  myself  to  be  young.' 

She  refused  for  the  same  reason  and  more  cate- 
gorically still,  another  three-act  piece  by  Scribe, 
entitled  ' La  Grand'mere,'  in  which  in  spite  of  her 
white  hairs,  she  won  a  young  fellow  away  from  a 
young  woman  in  order  to  restore  his  affections  to 
her  grand-daughter.  '  Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  sex- 
agenarian lady.  To  begin  with,  if  I  succeeded  in 
winning  the  heart  of  that  young  fellow,  I  would  not 
give  it  up  to  any  one.  Furthermore,  take  it  for 
granted  that  in  the  guise  of  a  grandmother,  I  should 
look  like  a  great-grandmother.'  She  was  right.  She 
was  no  more  fit  to  play  the  part  of  a  grandmother 
than  a  tenor  is  fit  to  sing  a  bass  part. 

Unfortunately,  the  poor  woman  was  not  content  to 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  89 

enact  the  young  woman  merely  on  the  stage.  How 
often  have  I  seen  her  come  to  the  rehearsals  of 
'Louise  de  Lignerolles,1  nervous,  irritable,  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping.  What  was  the  reason?  That  she 
probably  just  had  had  a  violent  altercation  or  explana- 
tion with  one  of  the  most  elegant  young  fellows  in 
Parisian  society  who  held  her  bound  to  him  by  the 
ties  of  a  mutual  affection  .  .  .  but  which,  alas,  was 
not  shared  to  an  equal  degree.  Well,  nothing 
could  make  her  give  him  up,  neither  his  frequent 
faithlessness  nor  the  humiliations  to  which  she  was 
often  exposed  by  her  frantic  passion.  It  was  she 
who  was  told  by  a  physician  to  whom  she  had  taken 
him  and  who  noticed  her  agony,  to  set  her  mind  at 
because  there  was  nothing  serious  the  matter  with 
Jicr  son.'  There  is  no  occasion  to  laugh  or  to  throw 
stones  at  her,  for  all  we  know  the  talent  and  the 
i  in  her  case  may  have  been  set  ablaze  by  the 
self-same  spark.  Who  knows  whether  the  one  would 
have  preserved  its  youthful  elasticity  and  spirit  without 
the  prolonged  youth  of  the  other  ?  We  ought  not  to 
judge  those  strange  beings  we  call  great  artists  by 
the  common  standard.  They  are  of  different  ages  at 
the  same  time  ;  they  are  adults  when  they  have 
scarcely  emerged  from  childhood  ;  they  are  mere 
children  when  '  they  have  reached  the  borderland 
of  old  ,-i^e.'  In  that  very  drama  of  'Louise  de 

•d  the  mother  of  a  little 
girl  of  ci  constantly  chidi  hild  for 


9O  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

remaining  by  her  side  when  there  was  no  necessity. 
1  What  are  you  doing  here,  hanging  on  to  my  skirts. 
That's  not  like  a  little  girl  of  your  age.  When  you 
have  given  me  my  "  reply,"  you  should  be  romping 
and  playing  at  skipping  rope  or  at  battledore  and 
shuttlecock.'  She  virtually  taught  the  child  how  to 
enact  the  child. 

Mdlle.  Mars'  acting  was  marked  by  three  eminent 
qualities.  To  begin  with,  she  had  that  rarest  of  all 
gifts,  the  talent  of  '  composing '  a  part.  There  is 
nothing  so  difficult  both  to  the  actor  and  author  as 
to  create  a  character  that  shall  hold  together,  that  is, 
whose  moods,  however  varying,  shall  accord  so  well 
as  a  whole  as  to  breed  the  conviction  in  the  minds  of 
the  public  that  they  are  looking  at  and  listening  to  a 
real  living  being.  Mdlle.  Mars  excelled  in  that  pro- 
found art  of  extracting  the  harmonious  whole  of  a 
part  from  its  very  contrasting  elements  themselves. 

Her  second  gift  was  a  marvellous  surety  of  execu- 
tion. I  had  a  striking  proof  of  it  one  day.  We  had 
to  rehearse  the  most  dramatic  act  of  the  piece.  When 
she  arrived,  she  looked  tired,  unnerved,  there  was  not 
'  a  bright  note  in  her  voice.'  Well,  she  rehearsed 
every  line  in  that  subdued  voice  without  missing  a 
word,  without  missing  an  effect,  merely  whispering 
what  under  different  circumstances  she  would  have 
said  aloud,  and  making  up  for  the  deficiency  in  sound 
by  emphasis,  and  for  the  shortcomings  of  the  vocal 
organ  by  articulation.  I  was  simply  amazed.  I 


Years  of  Recollections  91 

seemed  to  be  looking  at  one  of  those  drawings  of 
Raphael  or  Leonardo  da  Vinci  in  which,  without  the 
aid  of  brush,  colour  or  effects  of  light  and  shade,  the 
:er  has  rendered  the  expression,  the  form,  and 
intention  with  a  mere  pencil  point. 

Finally,  her  third  gift  was  one  which  is  scarcely  con- 
sidered worth  having  nowadays,  namely,  the  gift  of 
taste.    Taste,  I  think,  may  be  defined  as  being  synony- 
mous with  the  control  of  one's  own  strength,  with  the 
careful  avoidance  of  exaggeration  in  the  portrayal  of 
ion,  with  restraint  even  in  the  matter  of  graceful- 
Some   very   great  artists   have   been    utterly 
devoid  of  taste.     Shakespeare  knows  nothing  about 
;  Rubens  has  no  taste,  and  let  us  thank  heaven 
for  it,  because  taste  pares,  attenuates,  and  tones  down 
things,  and  the  very  extravagance  of  these  powerful 
geniuses  constitutes  part  of  their  grandeur,  albeit  that 
taste    displayed    by    Sophocles,    Virgil,    Mozart, 
Raphael,  Racine,  and  La  Fontaine  likewise  constitutes 
one  of  the  elements  of  genius.     Mdlle.   Mars'   : 
showed  itself  in  the  delightful  sympathy  between  her 
voice,  physiognomy  and  gestures.     Truly,  we  should 
:nber  that  her  tutrix  had  been  Mdlle.  Contat,  the 
i  i)f  the  domain  of  elegance. 

In  the  beginning  of  her  Mdlle.  Mars  iiM-d  her 

trm  too  freely,  which   habit   amused   tin-   indi  . 

•  f  Mdlle.  Contat.     'The  left  arm  is  at  best  but  an 

awkward  in^tnin  1,  'and  it  should  only  be 

used   under  nal    <  ir  i  ou'il 


92  Si.vfy    Years  of  Recollections 

find  that  I'll  break  yours  in.  You'll  be  playing  '  Le 
Dissipateur '  to-morrow,  and  in  the  scene  of  the  fourth 
act,  with  which  I  have  no  fault  -to  find,  that  wretched 
arm  of  yours  saws  the  air  like  the  sail  of  a  windmill. 
I  am  going  to  tie  a  black  string  to  your  'paw,'  and  post 
myself  at  the  wing  where  you  play  your  scene.  The 
moment  you  attempt  to  move  your  arm,  I'll 
pull.' 

The  scene  commences,  and  at  the  second  line  Mdlle. 
Mars'  arm  goes  up,  or  rather  tries  to  do  so,  for  there 
is  a  pull  at  the  string  and  the  attempt  at  revolt  is 
nipped  in  the  bud.  The  scene  becomes  animated,  the 
young  actress  catches  the  spirit  of  it,  and  at  a  sing- 
ularly pathetic  line  the  poor  arm  gets  fidgety,  and 
attempts  to  free  itself  a  second  time,  but  with  the 
same  result.  The  scene  becomes  still  more  touching 
and  goes  on  increasing  in  pathos,  the  poor  arm  wants 
to  emphasise  the  pathos,  but  is  pulled  back  for  the 
third  time.  It  naturally  protests  against  its  bondage, 
the  string  protests  on  its  side,  until  at  last  Mdlle.  Mars 
carried  away  by  her  growing  excitement,  lifts  both 
hands  so  impetuously  that  the  string  snaps  in  twain 
and  the  arm  is  free  to  do  as  it  likes,  and  improves 
the  occasion.  When  the  scene  is  over,  Mdlle.  Mars 
makes  her  exit  with  a  contrite  mien  and  not  daring  to 
look  Mdlle.  Contat  in  the  face.  But  the  latter  goes  up 
to  her,  and  taking  hold  of  her  hand  says,  *  Bravo ! 
this  is  a  better  lesson  than  any  I  could  give  you. 
Henceforth,  remember  that  the  left  arm  should  not  be 


ty    Years  of  Recollections  93 

lifted  unless  you  can  break  the  string  by  the  force  of 
your  natural  emotion.' 

To-day,  when  the  youngest  and  prettiest  actresses 
seek  their  success  by  means  of  vulgar  gestures,  bodily 
contortions  and  trivial  intonation,  Mdlle.  Contat 
would  scarcely  find  pupils.  Formerly  an  actress,  in 
order  to  please,  was  bound  to  have  taste,  to-day  she 
must  have  '  spice.'  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  when 
young  women  in  society,  and  in  the  best  society,  set 
the  example.  Fifteen  years  ago,  (this  was  written  in 
1886-87)  Sardou  made  one  of  his  young  girls  talk  a 
few  phrases  of  slang.  There  was  a  general  cry  of 
indignation.  To-day  the  adjectives  'stunning,' 
1  side-splitting,'  (c pat  ant,  tordant\  constitute  part  and 
parcel  of  the  usual  vocabulary  of  young  girls.  I 
may  frankly  confess  that  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to 
this.  When  I  hear  them  utter  these  words,  they 
sound  to  me  like  oaths.  Mdlle.  Mars  would  probably 
have  considered  them  blasphemy. 

Mdlle.  Mars  had  another  sterling  and  rare  quality, 

which    I,  above  all   men,  ought  not  to  forget.     She 

an  excellent  counsellor.     In  the  third  act  of  our 

drama  Louise  interrupted  her  husband's  meeting  with 

liis  mistress.    We  had  represented  the  husband  as  be- 

^sed,  grieved,  and  more  or  less  repentant. 

'This   is   simply  absurd,1   exclaimed   Mdlle.   M, 
'he  ought  to  get  into  a  He  has  d<>nc  \vrong, 

consequently  he  ought  to  accuse,  to  ill-treat   ni 
any  peech — for  that's  your  character,  gentle- 


94  .SY.r/r    )  't-tirs  of  Recollections 

men.  Your  vanity  rules  everything.  A  husband  wh •> 
is  caught  by  his  wife  at  a  clandestine  meeting  is 
virtually  in  a  ridiculous  position,  hence  my  husband 
must  get  in  a  towering  passion.  You  need  not  mind 
me  in  the  case,  I'll  come  out  all  the  stronger,  and  the 
scene  of  reconciliation  will  be  all  the  more  touching.' 

When  in  due  course  that  scene  came,  Louise  left 
alone  with  her  husband,  expressed  her  confidence  in 
him  for  the  future,  saying,  *  I  have  no  longer  any  fear, 
I  am  ignorant  of  everything  ;  I  feel  as  if  we  had  only 
been  married  yesterday.'  When  she  got  to  these 
words  she  stopped  short  and  in  her  somewhat  brusque 
voice,  her  everyday  voice,  said,  '  I'll  not  speak  this 
line.'  '  Why  not,  madame  ?  '  *  Why  not  ?  Because 
it  is  utterly  useless  in  that  situation.'  '  Useless,  use- 
less,' I  repeated,  rather  nettled  (I  was  only  thirty  and 
not  very  patient,)  I  think  it  very  good.'  '  You  think 
it  very  good,  "  I  feel  as  if  we  had  only  been  married 
yesterday." '  '  Yes,  madame,  it  expresses  as  it  were 
the  confidence  which  makes  Louise  go  back  to  her 
first  days  of  married  happiness.'  *  Have  as  much 
married  happiness  as  you  like,  but  I  refuse  to  say  "  as 
if  we  had  only  been  married  yesterday."  Put  some- 
thing else  instead.'  '  What  am  I  to  put  ?  '  *  Put  tra 
la,  la,  la,  la, — tra,  la,  la,  la,  la, — tra,  la,  la,  la,  la  !  ' 
'  Great  heavens/  I  thought,  '  she's  gone  out  of  her 
mind.'  Thereupon  I  went  away. 

While  striding  along  and  my  anger  gradually  sub- 
siding, I  began  to  reflect.     '  What  in  the  name  of  all 


Si.vfv    Years  of  Recollections  95 

that's  good  did  she  mean  ?  Did  those  tra,  la,  la's 
divided  into  equal  parts  represent  to  her,  may  be,  the 
rhythm,  the  harmony  she  stands  in  need  of  in  these 
words  in  order  to  convey  the  joy  and  tenderness  with 
which  her  soul  is  overflowing  ?  I  had  better  think  it 
over.'  Thus  said  I  to  myself  and  next  morning  I 
came  to  the  rehearsal  with  the  following  phrase  in 
four  parts.  *  Even-thing  is  forgotten ;  I  know  nothing; 
our  life  only  commences  ;  it's  the  first  time  you  have 
told  me,  I  love  you.' 

The  moment  she  heard  the  words,  she  exclaimed, 
'That's  it,  that's  all  I  wanted.' 

tors  often  ask  you  in  that  way  for  things 
that  are  not  very  clear,  and  which  nevertheless  are 
none  the  less  just.  The  reasons  they  advance  are 
bad,  but  they  are  right  for  all  that.  Their  critical  in- 
stinct resembles  a  kind  of  semi-obscured  second  sight, 
which  often  gropes  about,  often  proceeds  in  a  zig-zag 
fashion,  but  which  points  out  the  straight  road  to  the 
author. 

We   rehearsed    the    piece    sixty-eight    times,    and 

during  that  very  long  period  of  preparation,  I  learned 

many  things,  notably  patience.     Mdlle.  Mars  was  not 

alw.i .  .  ith.      Very  satirical   and 

gifted   with   a  rare  talent  for  mimicking  people,  she 

mcaturing  the  g-  voice  of 

/one  who  came  in  contact  with  her,  and  on  one 

•  I  need  scarcely  remind  the  reader  that  no  possibiii 

rendering  all  this  in  English  prose. — TK. 


96  Si.vtj1    Years  of  Recollections 

occasion  she  ^avc  such  a  capital  imitation  of  my  jerky 
and  nervous  diction  of  those  days  that  she  managed 
to  cure  me  of  it  for  ever.  The  moment  I  feel  in- 
clined to  relapse  into  my  old  habit,  I  think  of  Mdlle. 
Mars  and  it  has  the  desired  effect.  I  may  add  that  I 
have  never  met  with  anyone  so  zealous  and  conscien- 
tious, watching,  as  it  were  over  every  part,  always 
listening  to  what  was  going  on  on  the  stage,  whether 
she  happened  to  be  *  on '  at  the  moment  or  not 
One  morning  we  were  standing  chatting  at  the  wings, 
she  was  telling  me  of  her  grievances  against  her 
director.  She  was  furious,  her  face,  her  gestures,  her 
voice,  everything  was  ablaze.  All  at  once  her  face 
changes,  she  is  angry  as  ever  in  speech,  but  her  look, 
her  expression  becomes  milder,  her  invectives  are 
uttered  with  a  smile,  so  that  at  the  last  sentence 
though  the  language  is  still  that  of  a  fury,  the  face  is 
that  of  an  angel.  What  had  occurred  ?  This  much : 
while  speaking  she  had  carefully  listened  to  the 
actors  on  the  stage  and  become  aware  that  her 
'  entrance '  was  nigh,  and  as  she  was  to  '  enter '  smil- 
ing and  amiable,  she  had  prepared  for  it  amidst  her 
anger  and  whilst  talking,  she  had  changed  her  features 
as  she  changed  her  dresses  when  changing  her  parts. 
On  the  first  night  of '  Louise  de  Lignerolles/  before 
the  rise  of  the  curtain,  I  noticed  that  she  was  rather 
more  agitated  than  is  generally  the  case  with  great 
artists  on  the  evening  of  a  battle ;  for  on  such  occa- 
sions they  feel  themselves  in  their  element,  like  a 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  97 

it  captain  amidst  the  roar  of  cannon.  The 
moment  she  caught  sight  of  me,  she  came  up  to  me, 
saying,  'To-morrow  you'll  discover  the  credit  I 
rved  for  acting  as  I  shall  act  to-night,  for  I'll  act 
very  well.'  Next  morning,  in  fact,  I  learned  that  on 
coming  back  to  her  house  at  five  in  the  afternoon  on 
the  day  of  the  first  performance,  she  found  everything 
in  the  greatest  disorder.  The  servants  had  just 
discovered  that  her  diamonds  worth  sixty  thousand 
francs,  had  been  stolen. 

In  spite  of  this,  the  performance  from  beginning  to 
end  was  a  veritable  triumph  for  her ;  the  success  of 
the    piece    itself    was    very    considerable.      At    the 
twentieth  performance,  the  23rd  August,  the  receipts 
rose  to  five  thousand  six  hundred  francs,  an  enormous 
re  in  those  days.     Mdlle.  Mars  went  for  her  holi- 
days,* and  was  to  make  her  re-appearance  on  the 
1st  October.     She  did  not  come  back  at  the  stated 
>d,  and  only  returned  six  months  later ;  she  only 
her    character    of    Louise    de    Lignerolles 
months  after,  and  then  only  enacted  it  twice 
or   thrice.     What   was   the  reason?     It   may  be  ex- 
plained in  one  word.     Mdll<  !    had  made  her 
•  >n  the  boards  of  the  Comedie-Fran- 
in  September.     The  brilliancy  of  this  new 
in  the  theatrical  firmament  had   1  d  her.     She 
hid  herself  from   i               being  eclipsed.      She  refused 

ic  often  employed  by  gre»t  artists  in  France  in  starrin 
\«.|        ||  (. 


98  .SV.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

to  reappear  except  in  an  entirely  new  part,  in  order 
to  oppose  one  triumph  to  another. 

The  new  part  was  that  of  Mdlle.  de  Belle-Isle 
(Alexandre  Dumas'  play  of  the  same  name).  Since 
then  every  young  and  charming  actress  of  the 
Come'die-Frangaise  has  '  attempted  the  part,'  not  one 
has  ever  succeeded  in  effacing  the  recollection  of 
Mdlle.  Mars  or  of  proving  herself  her  equal,  and  yet 
Mdlle.  Mars  was  sixty-four  years  of  age  when  she 
played  it. 

Here  is  a  rather  curious  fact,  proving  once  more 
the  importance  she  attached  to  that  great  question  of 
her  age.  One  day,  a  friend  of  mine,  an  ardent  and 
old  admirer  of  everything  connected  with  the  stage, 
entreated  me  to  introduce  him  to  Mdlle.  Mars. 
This  friend  suffered  from  a  peculiar  defect ;  he  had  an 
infallible  memory.  Everything  in  his  mind  was 
reduced  to  dates.  If  the  recollection  of  his  first  love- 
appointment  happened  to  well  into  his  heart,  he  im- 
mediately added  with  a  melancholy  sigh,  '  It  was  on 
the  1 3th  September  1798.'  While  we  were  knocking 
at  Mdlle.  Mars'  door  I  felt  vaguely  apprehensive  of 
what  might  happen  in  consequence.  *  By-the-bye,'  I 
said,  *  don't  let  us  have  any  of  your  awkward  recol- 
lections.' '  Don't  worry  yourself,'  he  replied,  *  I'll 
be  careful.'  The .  door  is  opened  and  in  another 
moment  or  so  I  present  him  to  Mdlle.  Mars  as  one 
of  her  most  fervent  admirers,  to  which  introduction  he 
adds  immediately,  '  Yes,  madame,  it  is  exactly  forty 


y   Years  of  Recollections  99 

s  ago  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  applauding  you 
for  the  first  time.'  In  vain  do  I  pinch  his  arm,  he 
does  not  understand,  and  at  the  termination  of  the  visit 
he  asks  the  illustrious  actress  to  be  allowed  to  call  again. 
The  request  is  granted  in  the  most  charming  manner. 
\  days  later,  however,  my  friend  tells  me  very 
naYvely  that  he  has  called  three  times  without  seeing 
her.  '  Each  time  on  my  name  being  taken  in,  I  got 
the  answer :  '  Madame  is  not  at  home.' 

She  retired  in  1841  and  died  in   1847.     I  have  two 
1  recollections '  of  her  at   that  period,  one   of   which 

idly  characteristic,  the  other  very  touching. 
One  morning  my  wife  was  strolling  in  the  Tuileries 
Gardens  with  her  little  daughter,  who  was  then  about 
s  even,  when  all  at  once  she  nudged  the  child  with  her 
elbow,  saying,  '  Look.'  Coming  towards  them  was  an 
old  lady,  wearing  a  '  false  front '  of  black  hair,  stoop- 
ing considerably,  painfully  dragging  herself  along 
and  leading  a  small,  yellow  dog  by  a  leash.  The 
little  animal  evidently  gave  its  mistress  a  good  deal 
of  trouble,  but  she  bore  patiently  with  it,  stopping 
when  it  stopped,  etc.,  etc.  It  was  Mdlle.  Mars,  tak- 
'\er  companion  for  an  airing,  the  Araminte  of 
yore  waiting  upon  a  little  mongrel. 

One  of  Mdlle.  MuiV  friends  was  an  old  operatic 

:  whom  amateurs  still  remember,  Mme.  Dabadie 

imy    of    Rossini's    '(iuillaume    Tell.' 

Dabadie   was  very   anxious  about     Mdlle. 

iritual   condition.       'I'll    think    about    it,    I'll 


IOO  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

think  about  it ;  but  I  must  first  of  all  see  to  that  law- 
suit of  mine  pending  at  Versailles.  When  I  shall 
have  won  that,  you  may  bring  me  a  confessor.' 
i  I  have  got  an  admirable  one,'  replied  the  operatic 
artist,  'the  Abb6  Gaillard,  the  curate  of  the  Made- 
leine.' '  Very  well,  I'll  write  to  you  when  I  want 
him.' 

A  week  later  Mdlle.  Mars  is  suddenly  and  danger- 
ously taken  ill.  '  Send  me  your  curate  at  once,'  she 
writes  to  Mme.  Dabadie.  The  good  priest  went,  it 
was  he  who  gave  me  the  particulars  of  the  last  days 
of  her  who  was  once  Mdlle.  Mars,  and  he  never  al- 
luded to  her  grace,  charm  and  fascination  without 
being  thoroughly  moved.  That  part  of  the  penitent 
woman  was  Mdlle.  Mars'  final  one,  and  she  enacted 
it  as  she  had  enacted  all  the  others,  to  perfection. 
The  priest  in  speaking  of  her  triumphant  success  of 
former  days,  said  to  her :  *  Where  are  all  those 
beautiful  wreaths,  mademoiselle.  ? '  c  Truly  nowhere, 
monsieur  1'abbe,'  came  the  smiling  answer,  '  but  you 
are  preparing  a  much  more  lovely  one  for  me,  which 
will  last  for  ever.' 

On  the  last  days,  with  her  mind  wandering  now 
and  then  and  in  the  intervals  of  prayer,  she  suddenly 
interrupted  herself  and  after  a  moment's  pause,  began 
to  talk  of '  Dorante,'  of '  love '  and  so  forth.  It  was  a 
passage  from  '  Les  Fausses  Confidences.'  Then  she 
stopped  again  as  if  listening  to  what  she  had  said, 
and  applauded.  A  touching  and  delightful  picture,  if 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  101 

ever  there  was  one.  This  mingling  of  the  parts  of 
the  actress  and  spectator,  that  .voice  listening  to  its 
own  music,  those  hands  applauding  her  own  words, 
those  alternate  lines  'of  the  sacred  text  and  of 
comedy  couplets,  assuredly,  all  this  has  a  grace 
vying  with  that  of  her  most  delightful  parts.  Who 
had  the  last  words!  David  with  his  psalms  or  Mari- 
vaux  with  his  sprightly  epigrams.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  it  was  Marivaux.  That  which  precedes  the 
artist  closest  in  death  is  art. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Eugene  Scribe. — The  beginning  of  my  friendship  with  him. — A  Letter 
to  him  and  his  answer. — Scribe's  Birth  and  Parentage. — His  School- 
days and  College  Chums. — His  beginnings  as  a  Dramatist. — A 
strange  Collaborates. — A  scene  from  'She  Stoops  to  Conquer'  in 
real  life. — How  Scribe  became  the  owner  of  Sericourt. — My  success 
with  '  Louise  de  Lignerolles.' — A  Piece  on  an  Episode  in  the  Life  of 
General  Lamarque. — A  qualified  success. — The  balls  of  the  Due  de 
Nemours. — Court  Dress  in  the  forties. — Scribe  wants  to  write  a 
modern  play  for  Rachel. — I  find  the  subject. — Scribe  at  work. — 
An  Essay  on  Scribe  as  a  Dramatist. — Scribe  as  a  Librettist. — A  pre- 
dicament of  Dr  Ve"ron. — Scribe  converts  a  dull  tragedy  into  a 
sparkling  comedy. — Scribe's  Stage  Tricks. — His  Denouements. — 
His  reconstruction  of  two  of  Moliere's  denouements. — Scribe  as  a 
Stage-Manager. — Scribe  and  Louis-Philippe. — Scribe  as  a  Friend 
and  as  a  Man. — Scribe  and  his  Love-Affairs — '  How  happy  could  I 
be  with  either,'  etc. — A  Last  Love. — His  Death. 

I 

MY  friendship  with  Scribe,  like  that  with  Casimir 
Delavigne,  began  with  the  letter  of  a  schoolboy  to  an 
illustrious  playwright.  I  was  at  the  top  of  the  fifth  * 
form  and  had  my  mind  full  of  theatrical  ideas.  One 
day  I  fancied  I  had  hit  upon  a  subject  for  a  comedy 
which  seemed  to  me  absolutely  delightful.  The  end 
of  the  world  was  supposed  to  have  been  foretold,  and 
the  date  mentioned  in  the  prediction  was  accepted 

*  Fifth  form  according  to  English  scholastic  rules. — TK. 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  103 

as  a  certainty.  Of  course  the  acceptance  of  the  fiat 
produced  a  complete  transformation  in  people's 
actions,  language,  positions,  and  sentiments.  That 
sword  of  Damocles  suspended  over  the  whole  of 
humanity  caused  the  hitherto  stifled,  repressed  and 
forcibly  subdued  passions  to  burst  forth  from  the  in- 
most recesses  of  men's  hearts  like  so  many  volcanos. 
Like  that  clarion  sound  before  Jericho,  it  was  to 
over-topple  all  social  castes  and  distinctions.  There 
was  an  end  to  poverty  and  riches.  There  were 
neither  great  nor  small.  The  impending  end  neces- 
sarily brought  people  face  to  face  as  equals  and  un- 
shackled, figuratively  as  well  as  literally.  In  short,  if, 
as  I  intended,  the  first  act  was  to  treat  of  society  in  its 
old  aspect,  unimpaired,  law-abiding,  peaceful  and 
using  the  powers  conferred  upon  it  in  the  usual  way, 
the  announcement  of  that  sentence  of  death  would, 
one  may  well  imagine,  produce  a  tremendous  sensa- 
tion from  a  theatrical  point  of  view.  Enraptured  with 
my  plan,  I  wrote  to  Scribe,  asking  him  to  carry  it  out 
with  me  ;  the  plan  to  be  a  free  gift.  I  signed  with 
three-  asterisks  and  added  with  the  comical  conceit 
of  the  youngster  who  is  bent  upon  being  modest : 
'  I  will  be  a  discreet  donor.'  I  was  delighted  with  the 
donor.'  I  felt  proud  of  it,  the  student  in 
•ric  flattered  himself  upon  having  hit  the  grandi- 
loqui  "--ssion.  Since  then  I  have  l.m-hed  more 

than  once  at  the  recollection  of  it. 

Scribe  replied  to  M.  *  *  *  in  a  letter,  full  of  kindli- 


IO4  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

ness,  heightened  by  a  touch  of  sprightly  irony.  He 
instinctively  guessed  that  he  was  dealing  with  some 
'  young  hopeful.' 

*  Monsieur,'  he  wrote,'  your  subject  is  novel  and 
interesting;  unfortunately  in  order  to  command  the 
slightest  chance  of  success,  there  is  one  indispensable 
condition,  namely,  that  the  public  itself  on  the  first 
night  should  feel  more  or  less  convinced  that  the  end 
of  the  world  is  drawing  nigh.  That  is  the  obstacle. 
At  the  present  moment  the  public  is  far  from  believing 
this,  and  it  will  be  difficult  to  force  that  belief  upon 
them.  Fortunately,  people  are  talking  of  a  comet 
which  is  to  appear  next  year,  a  comet  which  is  ex- 
pected to  shatter  our  globe  like  a  simple  wine-glass. 
Let  us  wait  for  the  comet.  Its  coming  may  put  the 
public  in  the  humour  to  be  terrified.  If  so,  I  will 
take  advantage  of  it  and  write  the  piece,  or  rather  we 
will  take  advantage  of  it,  for  I  sincerely  trust  that 
that  great  event  which  will  overtopple  so  many  things 
will  also  rend  the  veil  behind  which  my  anonymous 
correspondent  hides  himself.' 

This  letter,  kindly  withal,  notwithstanding  its  tone 
of  banter,  filled  me  with  delight.  I  kept  the  precious 
note  like  some  treasure,  still,  I  did  not  make  myself 
known.  I  kept  waiting  for  the  comet  and  waited  in 
vain,  it  frightened  no  one  and  left  me  with  regard  to 
M.  Scribe  in  the  position  of  M.  * 

I  little  expected  then  that  twenty  years  later  I  should 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  105 

become  his  collaborateur  and  friend,  that  I  should  be 
present  at  his  most  signal  triumphs  and  have  my 
share  in  some  of  these,  and  that  finally,  after  a  lapse 
of  sixty  years,  I  should  take  up  the  pen  to  save  him 
from  supercilious  indifference  and  oblivion.  I  do  not 
intend  to  write  his  'apology,'  I  will  neither  recrimin- 
ate nor  praise  him  inordinately,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
hide  the  weak  points  of  his  talent.  I  will  confine  my- 
self to  painting  him  such  as  I  knew  him  for 
many  years,  at  work,  in  his  study,  chatting,  writing, 
initiating  me  in  his  method  of  working,  and  working 
with  me  and  will  leave  aside  his  works,  trusting  to 
posterity  to  assign  to  them  their  proper  place. 


The  theory  of  environment  is  very  much  the 
fashion  just  now.  It  appears  to  me  to  contain  a 
good  deal  of  truth.  The  spot  in  which  we  happen 
to  be  born,  the  circumstances  amid  which  we  L;T<  >\\ 
Kercise  a  powerful  influence  on  our  lives.  Scribe 
is  a  striking  instance  of  this. 

He  came  into  the  world  on  the   i  ith  June  1791,  in 

tin-  Rue  Saint-Denis,  in  a  silk  warehouse,  kept  by  his 

;n  of  the  '  Hlack  Cat,'  a  stone's  throw 

away   from  the  (then)  central  market;   consequently 

in    the    midst   of  a   1  (juarter,   inhabited  by  a 

middle-cla^  moved  from 

i  the  people, 


106  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

not  to  say  the  '  populace.'     His  talent  bears  the  stamp 
of  his  origin. 

A  second  point  worthy  of  notice  is  the  fact  of  his 
guardian  having  been  a  celebrated  barrister  to  whom 
he  went  every  Sunday.  To  this  connection  he  pro- 
bably owed  his  understanding  of  business  matters 
with  which  he  has  often  been  reproached,  and  which, 
after  all,  frequently  proved  an  advantage  in  his 
pieces.  There  is  a  third  important  circumstance 
which  we  should  not  overlook  ;  he  was  educated  at 
Sainte-Barbe.  Thence  sprang,  no  doubt,  his  tendency 
for  keeping  up  college  friendships,  the  traces  of  which 
are  met  with  at  every  instant  in  his  plays.  There  are 
at  least  a  score  of  Scribe's  pieces,  the  action  of  which 
begins  with  the  accidental  or  prearranged  meeting  of 
two  college  chums  who,  on  finding  themselves  together 
again  after  many  years,  feel  a  revival  of  all  the  hopes 
and  affections  of  their  youthful  days,  and  their  mutual 
confessions  and  recollections  supply  a  kind  of  affec- 
tionate note  to  the  sprightliness  of  the  'exposition.' 
Truly,  his  sojourn  at  Sainte-Barbe  had  given  him 
'  cronies  '  eminently  fit  to  stir  within  his  heart  the  love 
for  *  Companions  of  yore.'  Two  of  these  were  Germain 
and  Casimir  Delavigne.  All  three  were  called  'the 
inseparables.'  Casimir  and  Germain  went  to  their 
parents  on  the  days  they  had  leave,  and  Germain, 
through  his  connection  with  the  manager  of  a  small 
theatre,  had  tickets  for  the  play.  He  went  to  it  ever}- 
Sunday,  and  went,  as  it  were,  for  the  whole  three. 


Years  of  Recollections  107 

On  the  Monday,  at  *  play  time,'  there  were  endless 
discussions  between  him,  his  brother,  and  Scribe  on 
the  piece  itself,  on  the  acting  of  it,  on  the  effect  both 
had  produced  on  the  public,  the  whole  interspersed,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  with  numberless  projects  for 
comedies  or  farces  and  aspirations  to  see  their  joint 
names  on  the  playbills.  Their  beginnings  were  not 
brilliant.  '  Do  you  know/  said  Scribe  one  day  to 
Janin  and  Rolle  when  all  three  were  dining  with  me  ; 
you  know  how  I  did  begin  ?  I  began  with 
fourteen  failures.  Yes,  with  fourteen.  But  it  served 
me  right.  My  dear  friends,  you  have  no  idea  how 
flat  and  heavy  those  pieces  were.  Nevertheless/  he 
added  with  charming  modesty,  '  there  is  one  I  would 
fain  rescue  from  the  ignominy  inflicted  on  it.  It  was 
hissed  more  than  it  deserved,  for  it  was  not  as  bad  as 
an>-  of  the  others.  Really  and  truly,  the  verdict  was 
unjust.'  We  could  not  help  laughing.  *  Yes,  you  are 
laughing,  and  I  too  am  laughing,  but  it  was  no 
ling  matter  to  me  in  those  days.  After  each 
failure,  Germain  and  I  strode  the  whole  length  of  the 
Boulevards,  desperate,  furious,  I  repeating  at  e\ery 
moment  :  "  What  a  beastly  trade,  but  it's  all  over.  I 
give  it  up.  After  the  four  or  five  plots  we  have  in  our 
desks,  I'll  write  no  more.'"  five  plots, 

what  a  pretty  touch  of  natu:  the  rail 

•very  human  passion  under  the  sun.     'I'll   have 
four  iW8    i nor  the    ga:. 

that  I'll  play  no  more.'     'One  la  .-ll/  says  the 


loS  y   Years  of  Recollections 

love-sick  wight,  '  and  then  I'll  leave  her  for  ever.' 
And  the  gambler  keeps  on  gambling,  and  the  love- 
sick wight  does  not  leave  the  damsel  ;  and  seeing 
that  the  dramatist  is  both  a  love-sick  wight  and  a 
gambler,  he  tries  over  and  over  again. 

That  was  what  Scribe  did,  and  he  acted  wisely. 
But  Scribe  or  no  Scribe,  a  playwright  at  the  outset  of 
his  career  is  bound  to  stumble  and  to  make  mistakes. 
He  is  ignorant  of  his  own  particular  tendencies  and 
he  wants  someone  to  point  them  out  to  him.  In 
Scribe's  case  that  'someone'  was  one  of  the  oddest 
characters  I  have  known.  Though  he  nominally 
figures  on  the  list  of  French  dramatic  authors,  he  had 
scarcely  any  talent,  he  had  not  even  what  we  call 
sparkle  or  wit.  But  the  piercing  eyes  that  flashed 
from  behind  his  glasses,  the  bushy,  mobile  eyebrows, 
the  sarcastic  mouth,  the  long  and  inquisitive  looking 
nose,  all  these  stamped  him  as  an  observer,  an  in- 
quirer, a  kind  of  sleuthhound.  One  day  when  dis- 
cussing the  editor  of  a  periodical  whose  enemies 
averred  that  his  face  was  like  that  of  a  pig,  Beranger 
wittily  remarked,  *  A  pig  if  you  like,  but  he  has  the 
knack  of  finding  truffles.'  Well,  Scribe's  friend  dug 
him  out  from  beneath  all  his  failures,  and  he  con- 
ceived the  strangest  device  to  bring  out  what  really 
1  in  him  was.'  He  constantly  repeated  to  him  :  '  You 
will  be  all  right.  The  day  will  come  when  you  will 
show  as  much  talent  as  Barr£,  Radet  and  Desfon- 
taines.'  '  How  absurd  of  you  to  exaggerate  as  you 


Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections  109 

do,'  replied  Scribe.  *  I  am  not  exaggerating  at  all, 
only  you  want  two  things,  perseverance  in  your  work 
and  solitude.  I  am  going  to  take  you  away.  I  have 
got  some  friends  a  few  miles  distant  from  Paris.  They 
have  a  very  nice  house  in  the  country,  that's  where  I 
am  going  to  take  you.'  '  You  are  going  to  take  me, 
you  are  going  to  take  me ;  what's  the  good  of  telling 
me  you  are  going  to  take  me  ?  Your  friends  do  not 
know  me,  I  do  not  know  them.'  '  I  know  them,  and 
that's  enough.  We'll  take  up  our  quarters  for  four 
months  with  them,  and  in  the  autumn  you'll  come 
back  to  Paris  with  five  or  six  charming  pieces/  In 
another  week  our  friends  were  comfortably  settled  in 
two  rooms  adjoining  one  another,  Scribe  under  the 
careful  surveillance  of  his  gaoler  who  only  allowed 
him  to  go  down  to  his  hosts  after  he  had  finished  his 
day's  work,  when  he  was  sure  to  find  excellent  fare 
and  a  cordial  welcome.  There  was  one  thing,  h<  >\v- 

.  which  made  Scribe  feel  uncomfortable,  namely, 
his  friend's  occasional  rudeness  to  his  host.  When 
the  meat  happened  to  be  done  too  much,  or  the 

tables  too  salt,  he  simply  exclaimed:  'This  is 
horrible  stuff",  take  it  away,  take  it  away.'  Scribe, 
like  most  nice-minded  people  when  compelled  to  sit 

by  while  their  friends  are  making  fools  of  themse' 
felt   awkward  and   fidget ty.  they    feel   as  if  they  and 
not  their  friends  were  the  offenders.     Scribe  bent   his 
!  OV«  hi>  plate,  ki<  ked  his  friend  under  the  table 
to  make  him   hold   his   tongue,  and   when    the  dinner 


HO  _SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

was  ( >ver,  remonstrated  with  him  in  the  liveliest  terms. 
'  That's  not  the  way  to  speak  to  one's  hosts,'  he  said. 
*  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that,  they  like  it,'  was 
the  answer.  *  They  like  it !  why  you  are  behaving  as 
if  you  were  at  an  inn.' 

The  fact  was  that  they  were  at  an  inn,  or  at  any 
rate  in  a  boarding-house,  a  boarding-house  where 
the  friend  paid  for  Scribe  whom  he  housed,  fed  and 
provided  for  in  a  general  way,  in  order  to  compel 
him  to  work,  in  order  to  force  his  genius  to  sprout 
forth.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  more  curious 
instance  of  admiration  for  talent.  Only,  for  the  sake 
of  thorough  accuracy,  I  ought  to  add  that  the  friend 
was  not  wholly  prompted  by  pure  love  of  art.  For,  if 
he  had  as  much  as  suggested  the  title  of  the  piece, 
indicated  its  starting  point  or  inspired  a  song,  he  as- 
sumed the  part  of  collaborates,  claimed  the  acknow- 
ledgment, shared  the  author's  fees  and  the  glory  accru- 
ing from  the  work.  He  undoubtedly  worshipped 
Scribe,  but  Scribe  paid  the  budget  of  that  worship. 

These  curious  details  were  told  to  me  by  Scribe  at 
Sericourt  while  we  were  working  at  '  Adrienne 
Lecouvreur,'  '  and/  added  he  laughing,  '  there  is  this 
or  that  piece  of  mine  to  which  the  fellow  put  his 
name  without  having  written  a  syllable  of  it.  It  was 
his  due  after  all,  for  I'll  never  be  able  to  repay  him. 
He  had  the  most  wonderful  knack  of  inciting  me  to 
work,  of  winding  me  up  to  the  required  pitch,  of 
comforting  me  under  disappointment.  I  am  even 


5  of  Recollections  \  \  \ 

indebted  to  him  for  Sericourt.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow, 
the  very  room  in  which  we  are  seated  now,  do  you 
know  what  it  is  made  out  of?  Out  of  the  two  small 
rooms  in  which  I  wrote  by  his  side,  and  thanks  to 
him,  my  first  works.' 

1  Do  you  mean  to  say,'  I  asked,  *  that  the  boarding- 
house  .  .  .  .' 

ericourt  is  the  former  boarding-house.  I  became 
its  owner  by  the  strangest  coincidence.  I  had  just 
returned  from  Belgium  with  Melesville ;  we  were 
posting.  When  we  got  to  La  Fert£-sous-Jouarre, 
we  had  to  change  horses.  The  postboys  were  evi- 
dently in  no  hurry,  and  while  waiting  I  sat  down  on 
a  milestone  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  took  out 
my  pocket-book  to  jot  down  a  scene  which  had 
struck  me  as  we  were  driving  along,  Oh,  I  never 
ed  my  time.  While  I  was  considering  for  a 
moment  or  so,  I  happened  to  look  up  and  noticed 
a  bill,  setting  forth  the  conditions  and  particulars  of 
the  sale  of  Sericourt  a  r amiable*  "  SeVicourt,"  I  say 
to  myself  all  of  a  sudden,  "  surely  I  know  that  name. 
Monsieur,"  this  to  the  in:  landing  in  his  door- 

way, "  does  not  S£ri court  belong  to  two  ladies  of  the 
name  of  D—  —  ?  "  "  It  does,  monsieur. "  "  Do  you 
think  one  would  be  allowed  to  go  over  the  ]>r< 

*   The  bills  of  a  sale  in  France  always  state  whether  the  sale  is  a 
;.iry  or  compulsory  one.     In  the  one  case  the  saU  ice ted 

must 

the  hammer,  even  if  all  the  par 
the  less  cxp  less  formal  method. 


i  i  2  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

"  I  feel  sure,  for  it  is  for  sale."  "  How  long  would  it 
take  "to  get  there  ? "  "  About  three-quarters  of  an 
hour."  "  Upon  my  word,  I  should  like  to  have  a  look 
at  my  old  room,"  I  exclaimed  aloud,  just  as  the  post- 
boys and  horses  came  jingling  along.  "  Melesville,  do 
you  mind  getting  to  Paris  a  couple  of  hours  later  ?  " 
I  say,  turning  to  my  companion.  "  Not  in  the  least," 
is  the  answer.  "  Very  well  then,  postillion,  drive  us 
to  Sericourt."  An  hour  later  I  was  looking  at  the 
garden,  through  the  house,  the  whole  of  my  youthful 
attempts  uprose  before  me ;  I  felt  moved  beyond  de- 
scription, and  next  morning  I  had  bought  the  small 
estate  where  the  recollection  of  my  early  thirties  helps 
me  in  cheerfully  bearing  my  sixties.' 

In  what  way  did  I  become  Scribe's  collaborates  ? 
In  what  way  did  we  write  '  Adrienne  Lecouvreur?' 
A  short  but  necessary  digression  compels  me  to 
speak  of  myself,  but  it  is  only  a  roundabout  way 

back  to  him. 

II 

The  success  of '  Louise  de  Lignerolles  '  in  1838  had 
greatly  encouraged  me,  and  in  1844  I  read  to  the 
Committee  of  the  Comedie-Fransaise,  a  five-act  drama 
in  verse,  entitled,  '  Guerrero  ou  la  Trahison.'  It  was 
accepted  without  a  dissentient  voice.  After  I  had 
read  the  third  act,  the  members  of  the  Committee, 
contrary  to  all  precedent,  got  up  and  catching  hold  of 
my  hands  congratulated  me  ;  Provost  offered  to  play 
one  of  the  principal  parts.  The  main  idea  of  the 


Years  of  Recollections  113 

work  explained  its  success,  for  I  may  safely  say  that 
it  was  rather  strong  and  absolutely  new.  A  fact  of 
which  I  had  been  an  eye-witness  and  a  celebrated 
•nage  whose  friend  I  had  been  had  inspired  that 
idea.  In  1829  I  had  spent  my  holidays  at  Saint- 
r,  in  the  department  of  the  Landes  with  a  man 
who  had  had  his  share  of  the  world's  popularity  and 
glory  :  namely,  General  Lamarque.  His  name  under 
the  Kmpire  was  inseparably  connected  with  a  daring 
exploit,  the  bold  and  heroic  capture  of  Capri. 

The  general  was  a  native  of  Saint-Sever  and  re- 
sided there  in   1829.     Rich,  enjoying  great  considera- 
tion, a  scholar  and  a  clever  scholar  to  boot,  he  was 
simply  wearing  himself  out  with  ennui  and  rage.     The 
Kourbons  had  exiled  him  in    1815,  and  though  the 
sentence   was  revoked  three  years  later,  he  was  de- 
prived of  all  chances  of  active  service,  struck  off  the 
army  list,  etc.,  etc.     He  came  to  settle  in   the  small 
town  where  he  was  born.     The  idea  of  his  shattered 
r  filled  him   with  despair,  nothing  could    corn- 
ate  or  comfort  him  for  that.     To  beguile  his 
he  bethought  himself  of  building  a  veritable  palace, 
ith  was  spent  in  the  building  of  it,  and 
when  it  was  finished,  he  flung  himself  headlong  into  a 
lation    of    '  Ossian '   in    VCTSC    which    took    him 
another  ;  .nth.     When  he  had  written  the  last 

took  to  cultivating  flowers,  and  from    1 
spent  a  few  months  Inter,  he  l>r«; 

ctions    of   geraniums,    rose   bushes,   peonies ;    but 
.11  11 


114  .V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

neither  building  nor  bedding,  neither  rhyming,  nor 
constructing  palaces  prevented  the  craving  of  his 
heart,  all  these  amusements  only  soured  him  by  their 
inaneness,  and  he  relapsed  into  his  former  slough  of 
despair,  a  despondency  still  more  embittered  by  the 
cruel  sentiment  of  his  inactivity.  His  passion  for 
soldiering  was  so  intense  that  when  out  riding  with 
his  nephew  and  myself  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Saint- 
Sever,  he  stopped  more  than  once,  saying  all  of  a 
sudden  :  *  Look  here,  young  men,  do  you  see  that 
height  yonder?  Well,  suppose  it  were  bristling  with 
cannon  and  occupied  by  Prussians,  how  would  you 
manage  to  take  it?'  Saying  which,  he  would  put 
spurs  to  his  horse,  shouting  for  us  to  follow  him,  and 
breasting  the  hill,  initiate  us  in  the  mysteries  of 
attacking  an  outwork.  To  cut  my  story  short. 
When  in  1823  the  war  with  Spain  broke  out,  he  could 
no  longer  restrain  himself.  The  sound  of  cannon 
suddenly  bursting  forth  in  Europe  made  him  lose  his 
head,  and  he,  the  victor  of  Capri,  the  exile  of  1815 
wrote  to  the  Minister  for  War  offering  his  sword,  and 
winding  up  his  petition  with  :  '  My  greatest  ambition 
is  to  die  on  the  battlefield  wrapt  in  the  folds  of  the 
'white  flag.'  What  proved  to  be  the  bitterest  of  all 
trials  was  that  the  Minister  proved  more  tenacious  of 
his  reputation  than  he  himself;  he  would  not  sanction 
his  proposed  faithlessness  and  the  offer  was  declined. 
We  should  not  be  too  hard  on  him.  The  passion  for 
war  is  as  powerful  as  that  of  love  and  for  gambling. 


Si.rfy    }\'iirs  of  AVt v//<v.'.  115 

\ve  n«»t  seen  a  striking  instance  of  it  during  the 

:ro-  Italian     campaign.       General     Changarnicr, 

living  in  exile  at  Antwerp  was  said  to  spend  his  days 

by  following  on  the  map  the  march  of  our  troops  at 

•nta  and  Solferino,  and  when  in  1870  war  broke 

out,  he  also  could  hold  out  no  longer.     He  not  only 

forgot  the  harm  the  Emperor  had  done  him,  but  the 

evil  he  himself  had  said  of  the  Emperor,  and  wrote  to 

him  of  whom  he  had  spoken  with  so  much  contempt 

and  raillery',  entreating  him  in  almost  the  same  terms 

of  Philoctetes  in  Sophocles  to  employ  him,  no  matter 

where,  no  matter  how,  without  a  grade,  without  pay, 

without  a  fixed  post ;    he  only   wished  to  hear   the 

of  the  cannon  once  more.     It  was  that  passion 

with   all    its  attendant    despair,   with  all    its    frenzied 

.  and   finally   leading   to   disloyalty  which    I    had 

avoured  to  transfer  to  th  merely  changing 

defection  into  treason 

The  rehearsals  commenced  almost  as  soon  as  the 
,d  been  accepted,  and  confirmed  the  favour- 
able  predictions  it  had  called    forth   at    the 
ve  of  its  performance  Mdlle.  Anais,  a 

not  in  the 
'  It    appears   ti 

o  you  to-morrow.'     Unfortunatel)  i'r. 

that    happy 
iry. 

'nit   the   latter  part  \\ 


Ii6  Si.vfy    Years  of  Recollections 

lent  indifference.  When  leaving  the  house,  I  ran 
against  Mdlle.  Mars  who  said  :  '  Too  severe  in  its 
tone,  my  friend,  too  severe.'  The  piece  added  a  good 
deal  to  my  reputation,  but  not  to  my  exchequer. 
Nevertheless  I  was  indebted  to  it  for  one  precious 
favour,  the  friendship  of  Scribe  who  had  been  kind 
enough  to  attend  the  rehearsals  and  who  remained 
a  warm  partisan  of  the  play  ;  furthermore,  for  two 
distinctions,  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  and 
a  subsequent  invitation  to  a  ball.  At  that  particular 
period  the  Due  de  Nemours  gave  some  very  brilliant 
balls  at  the  Pavilion  de  Marsan,  the  invitations  to 
which  were  greatly  prized.  Court  dress,  the  coat 
a  la  Franchise,  white  kerseymere  knee  breeches, 
white  silk  stockings,  sword,  etc.,  was  strictly  enforced. 
I  had  been  told  that  the  prince  had  been  very 
much  struck  with  my  drama,  and  that  he  would 
willingly  send  me  an  invitation,  provided  he  felt  sure 
that  it  would  be  accepted.  I  did  accept,  and  on  my 
name  being  announced  by  the  attendant,  the  Due  ad- 
vanced a  few  steps  towards  me,  which  distinction 
made  me  feel  somewhat  awkward,  seeing  that  I 
had  never  spoken  to  a  prince  of  royal  blood. 
My  embarrassment,  however,  soon  vanished  when 
I  saw  his.  Timidity  if  it  be  accompanied  by  kind- 
ness and  courtesy  in  persons  of  high  rank,  is  not 
far  short  of  the  quality  of  grace ;  the  timidity  of 
the  Due  was  of  that  kind.  He  was  not  a  fluent 
talker,  but  his  looks  and  gestures  conveyed  so  amiably 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 1 7 

what  his  tongue  failed  to  utter,  that  after  a  few 
moments  we  were  chatting  together  like  two  young 
fellows  of  the  same  age.  My  legs  were  the  most 
awkward  part  of  me.  In  1845  shapely  calves  were 
not  the  rule  in  society.  Those  confounded  white 
silk  stockings  fidgetted  me  a  good  deal,  I  felt  as  if  I 
were  decollete  below.  Moreover,  people's  vanity 
came  into  play,  everyone  was  looking  at  everyone 
else's  legs.  The  fear  of  looking  ridiculous  made 
people  more  sensitive  than  usual.  Fortunately  the 
young  princes  came  to  the  rescue.  All  four  were 
graceful  and  elegant  to  a  degree,  but  their  tibias 
dwindled  down  to  such  thin  and  feeble  'broomsticks' 
that  it  looked  as  if  they  had  ordered  them  expressly 
to  make  us  feel  at  home.  It  was  impossible  to  feel 
ashamed  of  one's  legs  after  having  looked  at  theirs. 
No  legs  ever  exercised  the  virtue  of  hospitality  with 
such  kindly  forethought.  Towards  eleven  o'clock 
the  king  made  his  appearance.  He  was  the  only  one 
who  wore  trousers.  He  stood  watching  the  groups 
of  dancers  with  a  kind  of  benevolent  cynicism,  his 
hat  reposing  on  his  abdomen  as  on  a  tiny  shelf,  and 
with  such  a  merry,  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eye 
that  I  instinctively  guessed  what  M.  Thicrs  told  me 
The  kin  aid  one  day  to  me,  'was  the 

most  brilliant  story-teller  and  the  greatest  master  of 
banter  in  the  whole  of  his  kingdom.' 

*  Guerrero,'  had  been  th<  ,  of  my  intin 

with  Scribe.      I    often  went    to   see   him   in   the  morn- 


Il8  Si.v/j'    Years  of  Recollections 

ing.  One  day  I  found  him  in  a  great  state  of  excite- 
ment '  You  are  the  very  man  I  want,'  he  said,  '  you 
are  going  to  give  me  a  bit  of  advice.  I  have  had 
an  offer  which  both  tempts  and  frightens  me.  The 
director  of  the  Com^die-Fran^aise  wants  me  to  write 
a  part  for  Mdlle.  Rachel.'  '  Well,  who  is  to  prevent 
you  ? '  '  Corneille  and  Racine.  How  can  I  possibly 
put  my  humble  prose  in  that  mouth  accustomed  to 
recite  the  verse  of  "  Andromaque  "  and  "  Horace  ?  " 
'What's  that  to  you?'  'You  would  not  be  fright- 
ened ? '  *  Not  in  the  least.'  'You  would  dare  to  write 
a  prose  part  for  the  representative  of  Phedre  and 
Camille?'  '  Certainly,  well,  find  a  subject  and  we'll 
write  the  piece  together.' 

Three  days  after  that  I  enter  Scribe's  room  with 
the  classical  '  Eureka  '  on  my  lips.  I  tell  him  my  idea. 
*  Your  idea  is  not  a  good  one,  it  is  devoid  of  interest.' 
'  Devoid  of  interest,'  I  exclaim,  and  forthwith  begin 
to  defend  my  idea.  '  Let  us  try,'  he  says,  '  if  your 
idea  has  got  anything  in  it,  we'll  find  it  out  in  Iialf-c:;- 
honr  or  so.  And  he  immediately  begins  to  turn  my 
idea  upside  down  and  inside  out,  to  pull  it  to  pieces, 
and  to  examine  every  shred  of  it.  '  Not  a  thing  in  it, 
as  I  told  you ;  you  must  find  something  else,'  he 
winds  up.  On  that  occasion  I  had  the  first  practical 
demonstration  of  Scribe's  marvellous  facility  of  find- 
ing out  at  a  glance  whether  an  idea  was  dramatic  or 
not.  A  few  days  later  I  call  again,  this  time  with 
the  subject  of  '  Adrienne  Lecouvreur.'  The  words 


.V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  119 

have  scarcely  passed  my  lips  when  he  jumps  from  his 
chair,  rushes  towards  me,  flings  his  arms  round  my 
neck,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  'A  hundred 
nights,  with  six  thousand  francs  receipts  each  night.' 
*  Do  you  think  so  ? '  I  say.  '  I  don't  think  it.  I 
feel  certain.  It  is  an  admirable  "  find."  You  have 
hit  upon  the  only  means  of  making  Rachel  talk 
prose.  Come  to-morrow  morning,  and  we'll  set  to 
work  immediately.' 

At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  I  was  with  him.     He 
being  operated  upon  by  his  barber,  who  held  him 
by  the  nose.     The  moment  he  caught  sight  of  me, 
he  said  quickly,  in  that  peculiar  tone  of  voice  of  a 
man    who   is   being    shaved,  '  My  dear   boy,   I    have 
found  what  we  want.'     '  Take  care,  Monsieur  Scribe, 
you'll  make  me  cut  you,'  interposed  the  barber.     '  All 
right,  but  be  quick.'     And  while  the  razor  was  gliding 
over  his  face,  his  fingers  were  twitching  excitedly,  he 
kept  looking  and  smiling  at  me.     No  sooner  is  the 
man's  back  turned  than  there  comes  an  avalanche  of 
ideas,  of  more  or  less  defined  situations,  of  outlined 
characters  which  had  sprung  up  in  his  mind  during 
the  last  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  which  were  being 
ched  rapidly  by  him  while  he  was  dipping  his  face 
into  the  water,  while  he  was  brushing  his  hair  and  put- 
on  his  shirt,  while  he  was  changin  USCTS  and 
while  he                        into  his  waistcoat 
.   coat  an-                         his   watch   chain,  for  he  liked 
tdcwn    to   his  work                     and    ready  to  go  out 


1 20  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

at  a  moment's  notice.  As  a  matter  of  course,  I  told 
him  the  result  of  my  meditations,  and  then  he  seated 
himself  on  a  small  chair  at  his  writing-table,  saying, 
1  And  now  to  work,  to  work.' 

There  is  no  need  to  enter  into  particulars  of  that 
collaboration,  I  will  only  point  out  two  or  three  facts 
calculated  to  show  Scribe  as  a  man,  an  author,  and  a 
collaborates. 

In  our  theatrical  slang  there  exists  a  very  significant 
word  ;  it  is  the  word  '  nume'rotage.'  The  numbering 
is  the  planning  of  the  sequential  order  of  the  scenes. 
That  sequential  ordering  is  not  only  a  kind  of  classi- 
fication, it  also  comprises  the  development,  that  is, 
the  accumulating  interest  of  the  play.  That  number- 
ing is  the  itinerary  of  the  dramatis  persona  with  the 
points  of  interest  as  land  marks.  Each  scene  must 
not  only  be  the  logical  outcome  of  the  scene  that  pre- 
ceded it  and  be  connected  with  the  one  that  follows 
it,  but  it  is  bound  to  impart  to  it  its  motive  and 
movement,  so  as  to  push  the  piece  forward  without 
interruption  and  in  that  way  to  reach,  stage  by  stage, 
the  final  aim,  in  other  words  the  denouement  Scribe 
had  not  only  a  talent  for  numbering,  he  had  the 
positive  genius  of  it.  No  sooner  had  the  plan  of  a 
piece  been  sketched  than  the  whole  materials  for  the 
work  came  to  him  as  if  by  magic,  and  placed  them- 
selves in  their  logical  position.  During  one  of  our 
first  conversations  on  *  Adrienne  Lecouvreur/  when 
the  situations  were  still  in  a  very  sketchy  state,  he 


Si.i:  s  of  Recollections  12 1 

suddenly  got  up,  then  sat  down  again  at  his  writing 
table.  'What  are  you  doing?'  I  asked.  'Writing 
out  the  sequence  of  the  scenes  of  the  first  act,'  was 
the  answer.  '  Hut  we  have  not  decided  as  to  what 
we  are  going  to  put  in  that  first  act.'  '  Never  mind, 
never  mind.  Don't  interrupt  the  thread.'  And  forth- 
with he  wrote — 

SCENE  I.— The  Princesse  de  Bouillon,  The  Abbe. 
SCENE  II. — The  Same,  the  Duchesse  d'Aumont. 
SCENE  III— The  Same,  the  Prince  de  Bouillon. 

'  Hut  my  dear  Scribe,'  I  remarked,  interrupting 
him,  '  before  bringing  the  Prince  de  Bouillon  on  the 
stage,  we  ought  at  least  to  know  .  .  .'  '  Never  mind,' 
was  the  answer,  '  the  Prince  de  Bouillon  is  to  appear 
twice  in  that  act,  and  if  I  do  not  "  bring  him  on  "  at 
that  particular  moment,  I  shall  not  know  what  to  do 
with  him.'  Saying  which,  he  went  on  writing  and  a 
feu  days  later  when  all  the  incidents  and  scenic 
movements  of  that  first  act  were  finally  decided  upon, 
the  personages  almost  naturally  took  up  their  position 
at  the  points  assigned  to  them,  like  guests  at  a 
dinner  where  the  hostess  has  inscribed  their  names. 
I  was  simply  astonished.  1  have  rarely  met  with  a 
instructive  fact. 

In  tin-  midst  of  our  work,  Scribe  was  compelled  to 

nipt    it.     He   explained    the   reason    in   a  letter 

\vhi<h  I  am  anxious  to  quote  b<  not 

only  a  phase  of  his  character,   but   a    -limpse  of  his 

life. 


122  .V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

4  My  dear  friend,'  he  wrote,  '  I  am  writing  this  to 
ask  you  for  a  longer  credit.  Our  dear  Adrienne  is 
one  of  those  creatures  for  whom  everything  else 
should  be  put  aside.  When  one  is  engaged  with  her, 
one  should  not  be  engaged  with  anyone  or  anything 
but  her.  Unfortunately,  just  at  the  moment  when  I 
am  beginning  the  third  act,  the  Opera-Comique  - 
claims  my  services  for  the  new  score  of  Auber ; 
Buloz  (the  director  of  the  Comedie-Frangaise)  asks 
me  for  a  five-act  comedy,  '  Le  Puff,'  which  is  to  be 
put  on  before  '  Adrienne '  and  finally  Montigny  (the 
manager  of  the  Gymnase)  is  sounding  a  cry  of  alarm  , 
because  '  Charlotte  Corday '  has  turned  out  a  failure. 
He  insists  upon  my  finishing  '  La  Deesse,'  a  piece  in 
three  acts,  with  music  and  songs  in  which  Saintine  is 
collaborating  with  me.  I  do  not  know  whether  the 
gods  are  particularly  wearisome,  one  thing  I  do 
know,  this  goddess  has  bored  me  to  death.  I  sat 
"  down  to  her  "  in  a  desperate  mood,  working  from  five 
in  the  morning  till  late  at  night,  and  by  dint  of  such 
labour  managed  to  put  together  two  more  or  less 
presentable  acts.  But  after  these  I  felt  fagged  and 
wrote  to  Saintine  to  come  to  the  rescue  for  the  third. 
He  came  and  saw,  but  did  not  conquer,  and  now  the 
whole  affair  has  to  be  started  afresh.  Meanwhile, 
Adrienne  whom  I  love  with  all  my  heart,  is  waiting 
and  you  are  waiting  also.  But  I  will  take  no  engage- 
ment with  regard  to  '  Le  Puff,'  without  your  sanction. 
I  wish  to  put  matters  clearly  to  you,  but  if  my 


.SY.r/r    ) 't-ttrs  of  Recollections  123 

reasons  fail  to  convince  you  and  you  cannot  grant 
me  a  delay  until  October,  if  the  delay  grieves  you, 
write  to  me  to  that  effect.  That  reason  will  have 
more  weight  with  me  than  all  mine.' 

It  would  be  difficult,  I  believe,  to  be  more  gracious, 
more  kind,  and  let  me  remind  the  reader  that  when 
he  wrote  that  letter,  Scribe  was  in  the  zenith  of  his 
fame  and  I  scarcely  more  than  a  beginner.  Conse- 
quently I  answered  as  follows:  '  My  dear  friend,  your 
letter  has  touched  me  much  more  deeply  than  the 
delay  with  regard  to  "  Adrienne  "  is  likely  to  grieve 
me.  Your  fear  of  giving  me  pain  went  straight  to  my 
heart.  Don't  trouble  about  me  and  write  your  comic 
opera,  write  your  "  Deesse,"  and  write  your  "  Puff." 
Meanwhile  I  will  write  our  first  two  acts,  which  I  will 
take  to  you  personally  when  finished,  to  Sericourt.' 
•k  and  read  them  to  him.  During  the  whole  of 
my  reading  the  first  act,  he  kept  rubbing  his  head, 
and  when  it  was  finished,  he  said  :  *  It  won't  do  at  all. 
hear  the  second  act.'  At  the  fourth  page,  he 
us  to  talk  to  himself  in  a  low  voice  .  .  .  'Bravo, 
excellent.'  And  he  sets  to  laughing  and  crying  and 
clapping  his  hands,  adding,  '  As  for  that  act,  I'll 
answer  fur  r  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  often 

get  collaboratems  <>f  your  mettle.     There  is  only  one 
,  to  which  I  object  in  that  second  act:  Adrir 
with    which    slur   enters.'      'You    have    hit    the 

I    >aid    laughing.      '  That  story  is  a: 
I  took    it    almost   word  !•  >v  word    ; 


124  .S7.  r/  r    ]  '<  w ; T  of  Recollections 

"  Memoirs  "  of  Mdlle.  Clairon.'  '  That's  just  it,  it 
hangs  fire  because  it  is  true.  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
misconstrue  my  meaning.  The  truth  is  absolutely 
necessary  on  the  stage,  but  it  has  to  be  focussed  in 
accordance  with  the  optical  conditions  of  the  stage. 
I  am  not  at  all  surprised  that  the  story  in  Mdlle. 
Clairon's  "  Memoirs  "  struck  you,  it  was  sure  to  pro- 
duce a  great  effect  in  them,  because  it  places  before 
you  an  individual  of  flesh  and  blood,  a  fact  that  has 
happened  and  because  the  actress  imparts  as  it  were 
her  own  life  to  the  story.  You  take  an  interest  in  her 
by  being  interested  in  what  she  says.  But  on  the 
stage  we  are  in  the  absolute  domain  of  fiction,  and 
fiction  has  its  laws.  We  are  speaking  not  to  one 
reader,  but  to  fifteen  hundred  individuals  and  the 
number  of  spectators,  the  size  of  the  house  itself 
change  the  moral  conditions  of  the  effect,  just  as  the 
laws  of  optics  and  acoustics  modify  the  material  con- 
ditions of  that  effect.  Instead  of  that  true  narrative, 
I  am  going  to  put  an  absolutely  fictitious  one,  in- 
vented for  Adrienne,  suited  to  Adrienne  and  which 
will  produce  the  most  startling  effect  upon  the  public.' 
This  was  done,  and  on  6th  October  1848  we  read 
1  Adrienne'  to  the  Committee  of  the  Comedie-Frangaise. 
Our  piece  was  rejected*  without  a  dissentient  vote. 
How  it  was  enthusiastically  underlined  and  put  in 
rehearsal  six  months  afterwards  is  a  play  within  a  play 
which  I  will  describe  when  I  come  to  talk  of  Mdlle. 
Rachel  herself.  At  present  I  am  in  too  great  a  hurry 


:'    Years  of  Recollections  u; 

to  leave  Adrienne  in  order  to  show  the  grand  sides  of 
Scribe's  character  and  career. 

A  careful  review  of  Scribe's  career  as  a  playwright 
must  necessarily  deal  with  every  branch  of  dramatic 
art,  because  he  himself  dealt  with  everyone  of  these 
and  in  each  he  has  left  us  a  model  or  two  which 
if  they  are  not  absolutely  worthy  of  imitation,  are,  at 
any  rate  deserving  of  consideration. 

Among  the  foremost  gifts  of  the  dramatist,  those 
of  invention  and  imagination  rank  the  highest.  \Ve 
must  be  careful  not  to  confound  those  two  faculties. 
They  are  closely  connected,  they  support  one  another, 
but  each  has  its  special  character  and  its  distinct 
domain.  Invention  creates,  imagination  works  out 
the  thing.  To  the  one  belongs  the  primary  idea,  the 
finding  of  the  subject,  to  the  other  the  execution 
thereof.  Both  are  not  always  to  be  met  with  in  the 
same  man  and  rarely  in  equal  proportions.  A  man 
may  have  more  imagination  than  invention,  or  more 
invention  than  imagination.  Our  own  times  afford 
us  two  striking  instances  of  this.  Balzac  is  a  mighty 
:itor.  He  invents  wonderful  characters,  splendid 
'starting  points,'  but  his  execution,  for  lack  of  im- 
itiun.  is  often  heavy;  Balzac  falls  short  of  that 
fertility  of  incidents,  that  liveliness  of  dialogue  which 
make  a  powerful  work  amusing  besides.  The  winged 
goddess  did  not  pass  that  way.  Look,  on  the  other 
!,  at  Al(  Dumas.  Ti  >  >ints  of 

belong  as  of  to  someone  < 


126  Sf'.i't_r   }'t'(f/~s  of  Recollections 

Sometimes  he  takes  them  from  history,  at  others  he 
has  them  given  to  him  by  his  collaborateurs,  then 
again  he  simply  borrows  them  from  other  works.  He 
himself  in  his  charming  and  unaffectedly  good-natured 
Memoirs  admits  that  '  Antony '  was  inspired  to  him 
by  the  first  performance  of  '  Marion  Delorme.'  In 
order  to  stir  his  faculty  of  creation  he  often  wanted 
that  tap  on  the  cheek  which  a  certain  philosopher, 
whose  name  I  forget,  declared  to  be  necessary  to  him 
in  order  to  accelerate  the  pace  of  the  world.  But 
no  sooner  was  that  impulse  given  than  Alexandre 
Dumas  set  the  machine  a-revolving  and  with  a 
vengeance.  No  carriage  drawn  by  the  most  spirited 
team  ever  went  down-hill  at  such  a  rattling  gallop, 
with  greater  contempt  for  everything  in  its  way,  with 
greater  surety  also  than  a  drama  or  novel  by  Alexandre 
Dumas  proceeded  towards  its  denouement.  Even  when 
the  horses  are  not  his  he  makes  them  his  by  the  way 
he  handles  the  ribbons.  Nay,  they  may  give  him  cab 
horses,  he  makes  them  step  out  like  thoroughbreds. 

With  Scribe  the  powers  of  invention  and  imagina- 
tion were  of  equal  value  and  of  great  value.  He 
has  often  been  contemptuously  relegated  among 
the  adaptors  or  arrangers  of  other  people's  ideas. 
In  reality,  no  literature  in  the  world  has  produced 
so  powerful  a  dramatic  inventor.  One  single  fact 
will  suffice  to  prove  this.  For  a  score  of  years 
he  positively  held  sway  over  the  four  principal 
theatres  in  Paris ;  namely,  the  Opera,  the  Opera- 


;:•    Years  of  Recollections  127 

Comique,  the  Gymnase  and  finally  the  Comedie- 
e.  Each  of  these  four  theatres  he  had 
positively  endowed  with  fresh  life  or  added  to  its 
intellectual  as  well  as  material  wealth  by  writing  for 
it.  Before  him.  the  repertory  of  the  Opera  was  com- 
posed, with  the  glorious  exception  of  *  La  Vestale '  of 
ical  tragedies,  merely  transformed  into  so  many 
libretti  ;  Iphigenias,  Alcestes,  Armitas,  CEdipes.  or 
kindred  subjects,  but  always  the  same  which,  taken 
up  in  succession  by  different  composers,  left  the 
librettists  scope  for  nothing  save  elegant  versification. 
What  did  Scribe  bring  to  it  ?  Poems.  '  Le  Prophete,' 
Huguenots,'  'La  Juive,'  'Robert  le  Diable,' 
'  Guido  et  Ginevra,'  '  Gustave,  ou  le  Bal  MasqueY  are 
w.  »rks  the  like  of  which  were  absolutely  unknown 
before  Scribe  and  constitute  him  one  of  our  greatest 
lyric  poets,  if  we  take  the  word  'poet'  in  the  antique 
.  -"I'lTi'i*,  creator.  One  of  Scribe's  least  fav- 
ourably disposed  critics  has  ranked  '  Le  Prop! 
among  Shakespearian  conceptions.  Whence  sprang 
that  tlon?  1'Yom  the  simple  penpal  of  an 

ilhist  iition  of  the  Bible,      lie  was   reading   the 

n'ption   of  the   marriage  in   ('ana  when   he  rame 
n   the  words,  'Woman  what  have    I   t<>    do  with 
lie  read   no  further,  for  his   imagination   had 
been  struck  and   had   already  be  ;,m    t<>   transform    the 
f   Christ.      '  A    man        r.ulually    impelled     to 

'f  of  all    his   natural 
•'ulfil    what    ;  Ion,    a     man 


128  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

sacrificing  his  duty  as  a  son  to  assume  the  part  of 
God  ;  it  would  be  a  magnificent  character  to  sketch,' 
he  said  to  himself.  '  And  what  a  splendid  part  it 
would  be  for  Talma.'  Unfortunately  Talma  was  dead, 
but  fortunately  Meyerbeer  was  alive,  and  Scribe  com- 
posed the  libretto  of  *  Le  Prophete.' 

What  was  the  Ope"ra-Comique  before  him  ?  A 
charming  but  very  mild  kind  of  playhouse.  But  '  Le 
Domino  Noir/  '  La  Dame  Blanche,' '  La  Sirene,'  '  La 
Neige,'  '  Fra  Diavolo,'  '  L'Ambassadrice,'  *  La  Part  du 
Diable,'  opened  a  new  road  to  music  by  endowing 
lyrical  comedy  with  a  new  form.  Scribe  has  contri- 
buted his  share  to  Auber's  glory,  seeing  that  Auber 
would  not  have  been  the  Auber  he  was  without 
Scribe.  *  Do  you  know  to  whom  I  owe  the  phrase  of 
"  Amour  sacre  de  lapatrie"?'  said  the  composer  of 
'  La  Muette  de  Portici '  (Masaniello),  one  day  to  me. 
'  To  Scribe.  One  day  while  we  were  out  walking  he 
marked  the  rhythm  of  the  line  so  vividly  to  me  that 
the  melody  came  as  it  were  of  itself.  He  had  spoken 
my  duo  to  me.'  Scribe,  therefore,  is  not  only  en- 
titled to  one  patent  as  an  inventor  with  regard  to  the 
Opera-Comique,  but  to  two. 

Before  the  advent  of  Scribe,  a  vaudeville  was  based 
upon  a  slight  story,  more  or  less  adorned  with  song  ; 
Scribe  'raised  it  to  the  rank  of  comedy  of  char- 
acter— Le  Theatre  de  Madame  *  has  become  a  branch 
of  the  Comcdie-Frangaise. 

*  The  present  Gymnase. — TR. 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  1 29 

<\  finally,  at  the  Comedie-Frangaise  itself,  leaving 
aside  the  novel  experiments  implied  in  such  pieces  as 
1  I  .a  Camaraderie,'  '  La  Calomnie,'  '  Le  Verre  d'Eau,1 
what  is  '  Bertrand  and  Raton  '  ?  Simply  the  most 
beautiful  political  comedy  of  its  repertory. 

Such  was  Scribe  as  an  inventor.  As  for  his  im- 
agination, it  was  practically  inexhaustible  in  devising 
startling  incidents,  in  overcoming  apparently  insuper- 
able obstacles.  I  need  only  give  one  instance.  '  La 
Revolte  au  SeVail,'  a  ballet,  the  name  of  the  author  of 
which  I  do  not  remember,*  \vas  being  actively  re- 
hearsed at  the  Opera,  Mdlle.  Taglioni  was  to  enact 
the  principal  part.  Two  days  before  the  first  perfor- 
mance, which  was  already  advertised  with  the  quasi- 
sacred  and  binding  word,  *  Irrevocably/  over  it,  the 
Director  of  the  Opera  (Dr  Veron)  rushed  into  Scribe's 
study  at  nine  in  the  morning :  '  I  am  simply  going 
frantic,  ruin  is  staring  me  in  the  face,  you  alone  can 
avert  it,'  he  said.  'What  is  the  matter?'  asked 
Scribe.  '  The  performance  of  my  ballet  is  impossible/ 
1  Why  ? '  '  The  whole  of  the  success  depends  on  the 
situation  of  the  second  act,  and  that  situation  i 
follows  :  Mdlle.  Taglioni  who  is  shut  up  and  besieged 
by  the  revolutionaries  in  the  palace,  enlists  all  the 
women  of  the  huivm,  provides  them  with  arms,  drills 

*  The  author  of  'La  Rlvolte  au  Slrail'  was  Mdlle.  Taglioni's 
father.  By  all  accounts,  it  was  one  of  the  most  stupid  prcductions  of 
that  most  stupid  of  individuals.  Nevertheless,  the  first  twenty 

^>ces  yielded  more  money  than  the  first  twenty-five  performances 

le  Diable/  which  is  not  saying  little.— TK. 
VOL,    II  I 


130  .SY.r/r   Years  of  Recollections 

and  converts  them  into  soldiers,  whose  command  she 
assumes.  She  repels  the  attack.'  'That's  a  very 
original  idea,'  replies  Scribe.  'That  may  be,'  says 
the  director,  (  but  we  discovered  yesterday  that  it  is 
perfectly  absurd.'  '  Why  ? '  '  Because  in  the  first  act 
she  has  had  a  talisman  given  to  her  by  a  magician. 
Hence,  she  would  only  have  to  show  that  talisman 
and  all  the  eunuchs  would  take  to  their  heels.' 
*  That's  true,'  remarks  Scribe,  '  and  it  makes  the  affair 
very  serious.'  '  That's  what  I  say,  and  under  the  cir- 
cumstances my  only  hope  lies  with  you.'  '  Very  well, 
I'll  be  with  you  at  rehearsal  to-day  and  try  to  find 
something  afterwards.'  'That  won't  do  at  all.  It's 
no  good  trying  to  find  afterwards,  I  want  you  to 
find  something  now,  at  this  very  minute.  It's  of  no 
use  your  coming  to  dress  rehearsal,  there  will  be  no 
more  dress  rehearsals.  Between  now  and  to-night, 
this  very  day,  you  must  find  some  means  of  enabling 
me  to  give  the  ballet  without  changing  anything, 
for  there  is  no  time  to  change  anything,  and  without 
the  necessity  of  a  day's  delay,  for  every  day  of  delay 
means  ten  thousand  francs.'  'Very  well,'  replies 
Scribe,  '  leave  me  to  myself  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  I'll 
try  to  think  it  out.' 

The  director  departs  and  slowly  descends  the 
score  of  steps  leading  to  the  ground  floor,  but  before 
he  can  ask  the  concierge  to  let  him  out,  he  hears  a 
voice  shouting  after  him :  '  Ve>on,  come  back,  I  have 
found  what  you  want.'  As  a  matter  of  course,  V6ron 


AV.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  131 

comes  up  much  quicker  than  he  went  down.     '  You 
h:ivc  found   what    I    want?'    he   gasps,    panting    for 

th.     'Yes,       \Vivit    was    Millie.   Taglioni's   talis- 
man?'    'A  ring.'     'Very  well,  we'll  change  it  into 
\Vh<>  was  her  lover?'     *  A  young  attendant 
at  the  seraglio.'     '  We'll  transform  him  into  a  young 

;ierd.  What  was  the  divertissement  in  the  first 
act?'  'A  dance  before  the  Sultan  in  the  garden  of 
the  palace."  '  That's  all  right.  After  the  dance  we'll 
make  Mdlle.  Taglioni  sit  down  on  a  grassy  knoll, 
where  she'll  fall  asleep  ;  the  little  shepherd  shall  steal 
softly  towards  her  and  take  the  rose  away,  and  when 
in  the  second  she'll  want  to  have  recourse  to  her  talis- 
man and  take  it  from  her  bosom,  it  will  no  longer  be 
there.  You  see  it  wasn't,  after  all,  so  very  difficult  to 
get  out  of  the  difficulty.'  '  I  felt  sure  that  you  would 
be  able  to  do  it,'  exclaims  Dr  Ve'ron,  rushing  towards 
the  stairs  which  he  descends  even  quicker  than  he 
had  ascended  them  a  few  minutes  before.  A  quarter- 
of-an-hour  later  an  envelope  is  brought  to  Scribe 
which  contains  two  notes  of  IOOO  francs  each,  ac- 
companied by  the  words  :  'This  is  not  a  fee,  merely 
a  grateful  acknowK  '  That  was  the  only 

time.1   --aid  Scribe,  when   telling  the  story,  *  I    earned 
tw«>  thousand  francs  in  two  mini;' 

Here  is  a  fact,  illu  still  more  forcibly! 

'.ty  for  tran.sforming  things,  which  in  his  case  was 
nothing  short  of  marvellous.  One  of  his  friends 

1C    to    consult    him    on    a    very   harrowing    and 


132  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

sombre   five-act   drama,   intended  for   the    Ambigu. 
'Well,    my    dear    friend    and    master,    what's    your 
opinion  ?  '  says  the  author  after  the  first  act.     *  Go  on,' 
remarks  Scribe  seemingly  absorbed  in  thought.     '  Let 
us  have  the  second  act.'     The  author  goes  on  reading, 
the  drama  getting  more  sombre  as  he  proceeds,  and 
Scribe's   face   lighting   up   as    the  drama  gets  more 
sombre.     Somewhat  surprised  at  that  kind  of  success 
which  he  had  certainly  not  foreseen,  the  poor  author 
begins  to  stutter  and  stammer  and  to  feel  very  con- 
fused, until    Scribe,  unable   to   hold  out  any  longer, 
suddenly  exclaims :  '  Upon  my  word,  it's  absolutely 
side-splitting.'     '  I'll    trouble     you    no    longer,    c/icr 
maitre,  we  have  had  enough  of  this,'  says  the  author 
somewhat  nettled.     '  I  perceive  well  enough  that  my 
piece  is  very  bad.'     *  What  do  you  mean  by  bad  ;  say 
it   is   excellent,   delightful,    positively   delightful.     It 
contains   some  wonderfully  comic  effects  and  I  feel 
certain   that   Ferville  will  be  as  amusing  as    Arnal.' 
At  the  name  of  Arnal,  the  tragic  author,  indignant 
beyond    measure,   leaps   from   his   chair.     He   made 
sure  that  Scribe  had  not  heard  a  syllable  of  his  play. 
But  he  was  utterly  mistaken.     Not  only  had  Scribe 
listened  very  attentively,  but   he   had   reconstructed 
the  piece  while  he  was  listening,  and  as  each  lugubri- 
ous scene  dragged  its  weary  length  along  transformed 
it  into  a  comedy-scene.     When  the  reading  was  over 
the   huge,  heavy,  commonplace   five-act    melodrama 
had   become   a   delightful,  sparkling  comedy  in  one 


; •    )  'ctirs  of  Recollections  133 

act,     which     we    know     under     the     title     of    '  La 

Chanoinesse.' 

Ill 

Next  in  importance  to  the  invention  of  the  subject 
stands  the  planning  of  a  play.     Nowadays  the  plan- 
ning of  a  play  is  greatly  scoffed  at.     The  author  who 
happens  to  plan  his   piece  carefully  is  treated  to  all 
sorts  of  nicknames,  '  bone-setter,'  '  osteologist/  '  an- 
atomist,' '  dissector/  '  skeleton-maker,'  etc.,  etc.     To  all 
of  which  sobriquets  I  have  but  one  reply.     During  the 
last  thirty  years  a  goodly  number  of  old  pieces  have 
been  revived  ;  the  only  successful  ones  are  the  pieces 
based  upon  a  good  plan.     The  plan  is  to  a  play  what 
it  is  to  a  house,  the  first  and  foremost  condition  of  its 
beauty  and   stability.     You  may  load  and  overload 
a  building  with  the  most  magnificent  decoration  and 
ornament,  you   may  use  the  most  solid  materials,  if 
that  building  be  not  erected  in  accordance  with  the 
of  equilibrium  and  due  proportion  that  building 
will  neither  please  nor  last     The  same  holds  good  of 
a  dramatic  story.     The  dramatic  story  must  before  all 
things  be  clear,  and  without  a  plan  there  can  be  no 
Tin:  dramatic  story  must  proceed  without 
page  to  a  defined  goal,  without  a  plan  such  pro- 
s  is  impossible.     The  dramatic  story  must  assign 
to  each  of  its  characters  its  proper  position,  each  fact 
must  be  placed  at  its  exact  point  ;  without  a  plan  tlu  u 
be  no  due  regard  to  proportion.     Tin-  plan  does 
nut  only  include  the  ordering  of  the  play:    it 


134  S/.rti'    Years  of  Recollections 

includes  that  which  Alexandra  Dumas,  the  elder, 
called  the  first  article  of  the  playwright's  creed,  the  art 
of  preparing  situations,  in  other  words,  of  logically  and 
naturally  leading  up  to  them.  The  public  as  a  collective 
being  is  a  very  odd  creature,  very  exacting,  and  most 
often  very  illogical.  It  insists  upon  everything  being 
led  up  to,  upon  being  hinted  at  to  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  it  wants  to  be  startled  by  the  quasi-unfore- 
seen. If,  to  use  the  popular  expression,  a  thing  drops 
upon  them  from  the  skies,  they  are  shocked  ;  if  a  fact  is 
too  plainly  announced  beforehand,  they  are  bored  ;  in 
order  to  please  them  the  playwright  has  to  treat  them 
both  as  a  confidant  and  as  a  dupe  :  that  is,  to  drop 
carelessly  at  some  point  of  the  play  a  word  that  shall 
pass  almost  unperceived  and  yet  give  them  an  inkling 
of  what  is  going  to  happen,  a  word  that  goes  in 
at  one  ear  and  out  at  the  other,  and  which,  when  the 
'  situation  '  comes  upon  them,  shall  elicit  an  exclama- 
tion of  content,  that  ah !  which  signifies  :  '  True,  he 
warned  us,  how  stupid  we  were  not  to  have  guessed  as 
much.' 

After  that  their  delight  knows  no  bounds,  and 
Scribe  was  a  past-master  in  that  particular  trick  of 
delighting  them.  I  would  recommend  the  perusal  of 
one  of  his  master-pieces,  '  La  Famille  Riquebourg/ 
and  would  ask  the  reader  to  pay  particular  attention 
to  a  small  glass  of  liqueur  introduced  in  the  third  scene. 
It  looks  like  nothing  at  all ;  it  is  brought  in  as  a  mere 
adjunct  on  a  salver,  it  takes  its  place  like  a  mere 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  135 

1  super '  in  a  tragedy.  Well,  the  whole  of  the  piece 
hangs  on  that  tiny  glass  of  liqueur.  Without  it  the 
piece  becomes  an  impossibility,  there  is  no  way  out  of 
it,  the  denouement  lies  virtually  at  the  bottom  of  that 
tiny  glass. 

Finally,  the  fundamental  point  of  a  well-con- 
structed plan  is  the  denouement.  The  art  of  un- 
ravelling, especially  a  comedy,  is  in  some  respects  an 
almost  new  art.  The  public  is  more  difficult  to 
please  with  regard  to  it  and  the  authors  are  more  ex- 
pert than  of  yore.  I  shall  not  be  suspected  of  wishing 
to  depreciate  the  memory  of  Moliere  when  I  say 
that  in  general  he  does  not  unravel  his  pieces,  but 
simply  finishes  them.  The  moment  he  has  finished 
portraying  his  characters,  and  developing  their 
passions,  he  brings  upon  the  stage,  one  knows  not 
whence,  a  father  who  finds  the  long-looked-for  son, 
one  knows  not  how  ;  everybody  embraces  everybody 
else  and  the  curtain  goes  down.  That  fashion  of  ter- 
minating a  piece,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  would  not 
be  tolerated  nowadays,  one  would  have  to  be  a 
Moliere  to  dare  do  such  a  thing.  Nowadays  one  of 
the  first  laws  of  the  dramatist's  art  is  to  make  the 

tement  the  logical  and  enforced  consequence  of 

the  characters  or   the  events  of  the  play.     The  last 

scene   of  a   play    is   often    written    before   the    first. 

..isc   while   that   last    scene    has    not   been    found 

there  is  virtually  no  piece,  and  as  soon  as  the  auth«.r 

got   hold  of  his   </< /.  '    lu-    must   not  lose 


136  T    Years  of  Recollect iotis 

sight  of  it  for  a  moment  and  make  everything  sub- 
ordinate to  it.  The  novelist  may  at  a  pinch  begin 
without  knowing  exactly  whither  he  is  going  ;  he 
may,  like  the  hare  of  the  fable,  stop  every  now  and 
then  to  browse  the  grass,  to  listen  from  which  quarter 
the  wind  blows  ;  but  the  dramatic  author  is  bound 
to  take  the  tortoise  as  his  model,  though  he  must 
go  at  a  somewhat  quicker  pace.  In  other  words, 
he  must  start  at  the  right  moment  and  not  loiter 
by  the  way.  Above  all,  while  advancing  he  must 
never  lose  sight  of  his  goal. 

Scribe  is  one  of  the  authors  of  our  time  who  was 
fully  alive  to  the  importance  of  the  denouement  and 
who  succeeded  best  in  applying  the  severest  laws  to 
it.  Nay,  he  applied  these  laws  to  the  works  of 
others  also  and  most  often  to  the  works  he  admired 
most.  One  day  I  heard  him  in  the  heat  of  a  con- 
versation on  the  art  of  writing  comedy,  reconstruct 
two  denouements  of  Moliere,  that  of  '  Les  Femmes 
Savantes '  and  that  of  '  Tartuffe.'  '  What  a  pity,'  he 
said,  '  that  Moliere  terminates  that  beautiful  character- 
play  like  a  genre  comedy  by  the  trivial  artifice  of 
a  false  piece  of  news,  by  a  fictitious  ruin.  He 
had  such  a  capital  denouement  ready  to  hand.  The 
conclusion  sprang  so  naturally  from  the  very  entrails 
of  the  subject.  I  should  have  finished  my  piece  with 
the  admirable  scene  between  Vadius  and  Trissotin. 
The  picture  of  those  two  "  prigs,"  abusing  and  unmask- 
ing one  another,  destroying  their  own  and  their  dupes' 


: '    Yetirs  of  Recollections  \ 3 7 

illusions  would  have  terminated  a  masterly  \vork  in  a 
masterly  way.  As  for  "  Tartu  fife  "  that  is  altogether 
different.  As  a  rule  people  cavil  at  the  dc'no:ien. 
personally  I  think  it  admirable.  First  of  all,  it  has 
that  merit,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  that  without 
that  dJnouemext  we  should  probably  not  have  had 
the  piece  at  all,  and  there  is  very  little  doubt  that 
Moliere  only  got  the  play  sanctioned  by  making  the 
king  one  of  the  actors  in  it.  Secondly,  that  denoue- 
ment is  unquestionably  a  striking  picture  of  the  times. 
Here  we  have  got  an  honest,  upright  man  who 

valiantly  fought  for  his  country  and  who  having 
become  the  victim  of  the  most  obvious  and  most 
odious  of  machinations  finds  not  a  single  hand 
stretched  out  to  defend  him  either  in  society  or  on 
the  part  of  the  law.  In  order  to  save  him,  the 
sovereign  himself  has  to  intervene  like  the  Dens  ex 
machitm.  Where  could  we  find  a  more  terrible 
indictment  against  the  reign  itself  than  in  that  im- 
mense eulogy  of  the  king.  That's  why  I  admire 
that  denotement  so  much,'  said  Scribe,  'and  that's 
why  I  would  change  it  if  I  had  to  write-  the  piece  to- 
day. To-day,  in  fact,  the  only  sovereign  is  the  law 
itself  The  word  of  the  sovereign  simply  me.m^  the 

les  of  the  Code.  The  code,  therefore,  should  be 
entrusted  with  the  r61e  of  Louis  XIV;  it  is  to  the 
code  I  would  look  for  my  denouement.  I  would 

ntC   int..   a    magistrate   and  when     I 
"  I'h-  >  me  and  I'll  show  you 


138  :y   Years  of  Recollections 

that  it  does,"  Cleante  should  exclaim  :  "  No,  it  does 
not  belong  to  you,  for  you  owe  it  to  the  gener- 
osity of  a  benefactor,  to  an  absolutely  free  gift,  and 
the  law  has  provided  for  wretches  of  your  stamp 
by  these  two  avenging  lines  :  '  Every  donation  may 
be  revoked  on  the  proof  of  the  ingratitude  of  the 
recipient.'  I  dare  you  to  come  and  claim  this  house 
before  the  law.  If  you  do,  you  will  find  me  there 
also  with  the  patent  proofs  of  your  abominable 
ingratitude.  You  had  better  come  then,  but  remem- 
ber, I'll  be  waiting  for  you." ' 

Next  to  the  plan  of  a  comedy  comes,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  its  style  and  the  portrayal  of  its  characters  ; 
before  venturing  to  discuss  these  two  subjects,  I 
would  dwell  for  a  moment  on  a  fundamental  point  of 
our  art  which,  moreover,  occupies  a  considerable  place 
in  Scribe's  work  and  which  partly  constitutes  its 
originality. 

On  the  first  night  of  *  Hernani,'  Scribe  occupied  a 
box  in  the  centre  of  the  house  on  the  first  tier,  I  was 
in  a  side  box  on  the  second  tier,  and  I  watched  him 
following  the  development  of  the  piece  with  the 
closest  attention,  standing  up  all  the  while,  and  dar- 
ing to  laugh  openly  at  the  most  sensational  incidents. 
It  was  not  only  a  bold  thing  to  do,  for  he  made 
himself  a  good  many  relentless  enemies  on  that 
occasion,  but  it  was  also  a  bold  profession  of  his 
dramatic,  I  might  add,  his  philosophical,  creed.  The 
fact  is  that  every  comic  author  has  within  him  the 


\/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  139 

making  of  a  philosopher,  I  mean  that  he  carries 
within  him  an  aggregate  of  general  ideas,  a  theoretic 
conception  of  life  of  which  his  comedies  are  only  the 
realisation.  He  owes  those  general  ideas  either  to 
his  own  nature  or  to  the  surroundings  amid  which  he 
lias  been  brought  up,  and  they  represent  the  part  of 
his  own  thoughts  and  character  in  the  work  of  his 
imagination,  they  constitute  his  social  and  moral  part 
in  the  part  in  the  play. 

This  dual  part  of  Scribe  was  very  considerable 
though  it  may  be  summed  up  in  one  line,  Scribe 
represents  the  bourgeoisie.  Born  in  the  Rue  St  Denis, 
he  remains  throughout — and  therein  lies  his  strength — 
the  man  of  the  Rue  St  Denis,  that  is,  the  incarnation  of 
that  Parisian  middle-class,  hard-working  frugal,  honest, 
which  perhaps  lacks  sentiment  for  everything  that 
is  great,  the  class  which  does  not  aspire  to  a  very 
ited  ideal,  but  which  is  heir  to  those  precious 
gifts  of  nature — commonsense,  kind-heartedness  and 
the  domestic  virtues. 

Hence,    Scribe's    original    place    in    the    literature 
of  the  Restoration.      He  was  the  living  and  natural 
antithesis  to  romantic  ism.     While  '  Antony  '  dragged 
us  with    him,  bewildered   and    intoxicated    like  him- 
into    the     maelstrom     of    adulterous     passion, 
while   'Hernani'    made    us    frantic    with    enthusiasm 
hand  of  brigands,  while  'Marion  Delorme  '  en- 
deavoured to    force  upon   us   the  dogma  of  the 
dem:  Men    woman    by    pure    love;    he, 


1 40  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

Scribe  sang  the  praises  of  conjugal  happiness,  and 
selected  for  his  heroines  young  girls  who  had  not 
been  subject  to  such  temptations.  One  has  but 
to  take  up  the  various  works  that  compose  Scribe's 
repertory,  such  as  '  Le  Mariage  de  Raison,'  '  Une 
Chaine,'  *  Les  Premieres  Amours/  '  Le  Mariage  d' 
Argent,'  and  at  no  matter  which  page  we  open  them 
we  shall  find  everywhere  the  defence  of  paternal 
authority,  sense  getting  the  better  of  passion.  Scribe's 
muse  is  the  '  feet-on-the-fender '  muse,  the  '  bread- 
and-butter-cutting  '  muse,  if  you  like,  but  it  is  the 
muse  of  the  family  home.  The  story  goes  that 
after  seeing  '  Le  Mariage  d'Inclination/  a  young  girl 
flung  herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  confessing  her 
intention  to  elope  ;  after  a  play  by  Alexandre  Dumas 
she  would  have  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of  her 
lover,  saying,  *  Take  me  away.' 

The  bourgeoisie  is,  furthermore,  represented  in 
Scribe's  comedies  by  the  patriotic  sentiments  with 
which  these  comedies  teem.  His  warriors,  his  medal- 
led veterans^  his  fire-eaters,  his  colonels  have  raised 
many  a  smile  since,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned  they 
made  us  cry  for  we  had  not  long  ago  been  invaded 
and  our  wounds  were  by  no  means  healed  ;  each  of 
his  songs  in  his  farcical  comedies  proved  a  consola- 
tion and  a  kind  of  revenge  ;  unless  I  am  very  much 
mistaken  we  would  not  laugh  at  them  nowadays. 

Finally,  Scribe  was  both  a  conservative  and  an 
agitator,  supporting  the  throne  and  making  sport  of 


Si.rtr   Years  of  Recollections  141 

thj  chamber  ;  praising  the  King  and  satirising  his 
Ministers  in  song,  and  especially  pitilessly  scourging 
those  recantations  which  those  who  profited  by 
them  would  fain  have  had  us  accept  as  conversions. 
In  connection  with  that  subject,  I  happen  to  remem- 
ber a  very  interesting  story,  its  date  is  the  beginning 
of  the  second  Empire,  somewhere  about  1854.  One 
day,  at  some  reception  or  other,  Scribe  happened  to 
run  against  an  important  personage,  an  old  school- 
fellow whom  we  will  call  M.  de  Verteuil.  'What 
are  you  doing?'  asks  his  friend,  'some  comedy  on  the 
stocks,  I  suppose?'  'Yes,'  replies  Scribe,  'I  fancy  I 
have  got  hold  of  a  charming  subject.  I  intend  to 
put  on  the  stage  a  '  Peer  of  France,'  of  the  time  of 
Louis- Philippe's  reign,*  who  becomes  a  senator  under 
Napoleon  III.  You  may  see  for  yourself  what  a 
fund  of  comic  traits  I  ought  to  extract  from  such  a 
senator's  recantations,  from  his  awkward  position  in 
trying  to  reconcile  his  adherence  of  to-day  with  his 
adherence  of  formerly.  I  think  it  will  be  delightful.' 
At  that  moment  the  two  friends  were  separated  by  a 
batch  of  guests  and  shortly  afterwards  Scribe  went 
home,  engrossed  in  thought  and  not  very  cheerful, 
-ation  had  set  him  thinking.  '  I  am 
afraid,'  he  said  to  himself,  'that  my  subject  is  not 
as  good  as  I  fancied  it  to  be;  de  Verteuil  is  a 

clever  man,    I    tried    to  give  him  a  sj>iriu-<: 
count  of  my  plot,  but  it  went  without  a  smile.     T 
*  The  p«ers  created  by  Louis-Philippe  were  only  life  peers.— TK. 


142  Si.rty    Years  of  Recollections 

is  no  mistake  about  it,  he  did  not  seem  amused  in 
the  least,  a  bad  sign  that,  I  feel  sure.'  While  talking 
to  himself  he  mechanically  opens  the  evening  paper, 
and  the  first  thing  he  sees  is  the  following :  '  M.  de 
Verteuil,  a  former  peer  of  France,  has  been  called  to 
the  Senate.' 

And  now  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  some  of  the 
characters  of  Scribe's  plays  and  at  his  style.  I  may 
frankly  confess  that  these  show  the  two  weak  points 
in  Scribe's  works.  He  failed  to  look  at  humanity  in 
any  other  light  than  that  of  the  '  float.'  He  had  a 
profound  knowledge  of  men  and  women,  but  he 
invariably  saw  them  like  so  many  theatrical  person- 
ages ;  hence,  the  curious  fact  that,  though  he  has 
created  a  great  number  of  very  attractive  parts,  he  has 
produced  very  few  general  and  deeply  pondered  types. 
Not  that  life  and  truth  are  wanting  in  the  characters 
he  brings  on  the  stage,  his  faculty  of  subtle  observa- 
tion enables  him  well  enough  to  dissect  and  to  depict 
boldly  their  foibles,  their  passions  and  aims ;  they 
talk  as  they  should  talk,  they  behave  as  they  should 
behave  in  the  situation  in  which  they  are  placed,  but 
they  are  only  the  men  and  women  of  that  situation  ; 
they  fill  it  adequately  but  never  go  beyond  it.  On  the 
other  hand,  and  to  take  only  one  instance,  when  one 
reads  Shakespeare,  his  characters  seem  to  be  endowed 
with  such  powerful  breath  of  general  vitality,  they  are 
stamped  with  such  individuality  as  to  convey  the  idea 
that  in  every  possible  circumstance  they  would  act 


.SV.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  143 

and  carry  themselves  just  as  they  are  acting  and 
carrying  themselves  in  the  situation  in  which  they  are 
presented  to  us  at  that  moment.  They  are  not  only 
stage  parts,  they  are  men  and  women,  and  what  is 
more,  men  and  women  equipped  for  the  whole  battle 
of  life. 

\Ve  look  in  vain  for  something  similar  in  Scribe. 
He  rarely  conveys  the  idea  of  possessing  the  power  to 
create  strongly  marked  characters,  and  excepting 
4  Bertrand  and  Raton,'  and  the  last  and  admirable 
scene  of  '  L'Ambitieux,'  one  is  compelled  to  admit 
that  his  comedies  are  stage  pictures  rather  than  real 
pictures  of  the  human  heart. 

His  style  is  open  to  similar  objections,  the  language 
of  coined}-  should  be  at  the  same  time  a  colloquial 
and  a  polished  language,  (//;/<•  lauguc  parlcc  ct  utic 
riU  .  To  perceive  this  at  once  we  have  but 
to  read  '  L'Avaiv.'  •  I.e  1-Vstin  de  Pierre,'  and  (  Gee 
Dandin.'  No  doubt,  it  is  Harpagon  and  Don  Juan 
who  speak,  but  we  also  feel  that  it  is  Moliciv  who 
makes  them  speak.  Scribe  has  only  half  of  those 
tyle  has  all  the  requisites  of  conversation, 
the  conversation  is  natural,  bright,  it  trips  along  and 
sparkles,  but  one  regretfully  notices  the  want  of  that 
richness  of  colouring  and  that  surety  of  outline  which 
alone  constitute  the  -ivat  writer.  He  falls  short  in 
one  oth<  <  t.  A  comic  writer  putting  on  the 

stage  the  characters  of  his  own  time  is  bound  to  give 

them  the  language  of  his  own  time,  unfortunately  there 


144  fy    Years  of  Recollections 

is  a  great  deal  of  jargon,  consequently  there  are  a  great 
many  ephemeral  elements  in  that  language.  Odd  to 
say,  the  feeling  that  '  springs  eternal  in  the  human 
breast '  is  subject  to  the  most  transitory  form  of  ex- 
pression. That  part  of  a  stage  play  which  grows 
obsolete  soonest  is  the  love  episode.  Even  such  love 
letters  as  have  been  written  to  yourself,  should  you 
take  them  up  after  a  lapse  of  years,  will  make  you  die 
with  laughter.  Their  comic  effect  is  in  direct  propor- 
tion to  their  tenderness.  The  art  of  the  great  dra- 
matist is  to  distinguish  in  the  current  idiom  the 
perishable  element  in  order  to  borrow  from  that  idiom 
only  that  which  is  strictly  necessary  to  impregnate 
his  dialogue  with  the  tone  and  the  flavour  of  the 
moment. 

Moliere  writes  both  in  the  language  of  his  time 
and  in  the  language  of  all  time ;  Scribe  in  virtue  of 
his  very  scenic  instinct,  makes  too  much  use  of  the 
dictionary  of  the  Restoration.  Finally  the  impetu- 
osity, the  despotism  of  his  dramatic  temperament  led 
him  to  make  everything  subservient  to  the  action  of 
the  play ;  absolutely  everything,  even  to  grammar, 
not  from  ignorance,  for  he  knew  his  own  language 
very  well,  but  knowingly,  and  with  deliberate  pre- 
meditation. I  happened  to  be  present  one  day  at  a 
rehearsal  of  one  of  his  pieces,  when  all  at  once  one  of 
his  characters  delivered  himself  of  a  slightly  incorrect 
phrase.  I  suggested  a  more  correct  one.  '  No,  no,  my 
dear  boy,'  says  Scribe,  '  your  sentence  is  too  long ; 


r    Years  of  Recollections  145 

there  is  no  time  for  it.  My  sentence  is  probably  not 
very  orthodox,  but  the  action  is  proceeding  apace, 
and  the  sentence  must  follow  suit ;  that's  what  I  call 
the  economical  style.'  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  not 
from  economical  motives,  but  from  necessity,  that  he 
wrote  certain  lyrical  lines  with  which  he  is  constantly 
being  reproached,  and  of  which  reproach  I  would  fain 
cleanse  his  memory.  First  of  all,  you  may  adopt  it 
as  a  principle  that  whenever  you  meet  with  a  very 
bad  line  in  an  opera  that  it  is  the  composer  and  not 
the  librettist  who  has  perpetrated  it.  The  despotism 
of  the  former  is  beyond  most  people's  imagination, 
and  no  words  can  convey  an  idea  of  the  fate  of  an 
elegant  strophe  when  he  happens  to  lay  hold  of  it ; 
he  shatters  it  to  pieces,  he  amputates  it,  he  supplies 
artificial  limbs  to  it ;  it  is  simply  monstrous.  The 
famous  Alexandrine  of  the  '  Huguenots ' — 

'  Ses  jours  sent  menaces.     Ah  !  je  dois  1'y  soustraire.' 

was  never  written  by  Scribe,  it  belongs  to  Meyerbeer. 

be  had  correctly  written — 

"  Ce  complot  odieux 
Qui  menace  ses  jours,  ah  !  je  dois  1'y  soustraire.' 

But  that  </ui  happened  to  be  in  Meyerbeer's  way. 
Meyerbeer  cut  it  out,  and  substituted  his  horrible 
hemistiVh,  the  unfortunate  librettist  backed  it  as  one 
9  an  accommodation  bill,  and  when  the  bill  was 
protested,  it  was  he  who  paid.  I  am  anxious  to  get  to 
the  fifth  point  of  my  drain, itir  survey,  to  the  'staging' 

Vol..    ||  K 


146  .SY.r/j'    Years  of  Recollections 

of  a  phi\',  for  there  we  shall  find   Scribe  occupying 

the  foremost  rank. 

IV 

The  staging  of  a' play,  especially  of  a  comedy,  is 
also  a  wholly  modern  art.  No  doubt,  in  former  days, 
the  author  wrote  on  his  manuscript  :  '  The  stage 
represents  a  drawing-room/  but  there  was  nothing 
to  show  that  the  action  did  take  place  in  a  drawing- 
room.  First  of  all,  the  dramatis  persona  kept  on  their 
legs.  We  all  recollect  the  actors  at  the  Comedie- 
Frangaise  stepping  to  the  footlights,  side  by  side  and 
delivering  their  speeches  before  the  prompter's  box. 
A  clever  writer  who  since  then  has  been  become  an 
official  personage  wanted  to  introduce  on  the  stage 
of  the  Com&die-Frangaise  what  he  called  '  seated 
comedy.'  Unfortunately,  his  piece  turned  out  a 
failure  and  what  he  called  'seated  comedy'  became 
prostrate  comedy.  Scribe  was  one  of  the  first  to 
introduce  on  the  stage  the  animation  and  bustle  of 
real  life.  The  very  nature  of  his  talent  compelled 
him,  as  it  were,  to  do  so.  His  bustling,  sparkling 
comedies,  full  of  incidents  and  apparently  spontaneous 
situations  did  not  lend  themselves  easily  to  the 
sobriety  of  movement  of  the  stage  of  yore.  In  reality, 
a  manuscript  of  Scribe  only  contains  part  of  his  work, 
the  part  which  is  spoken  ;  the  rest  must  be  enacted, 
the  gestures  must  complete  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
the  intervals  of  silence  are  part  of  the  dialogue  and 
the  small  dots  finish  the  sentence. 


Si.r/]'    Years  of  Recollections  147 

lias  it  ever  struck  you  to  compare  the  punctuation 
of  a  piece  by  Scribe  with  that  of  a  piece  by  Moliere  ? 
In  Moliere's  each  thought  is  virtually  terminated  by  a 
stop,  and  in  his  dialogue  he  rings  the  changes 
according  to  the  rhythm  of  the  sentence  itself,  on 
stops  and  commas,  double  stops,  (semi-colons),  marks 
of  interrogation  and  every  now  and  then  of  ex- 
clamation. Scribe  has  added  to  these  the  small 
dots,  that  is,  the  unfinished  sentence,  the  sentiment 
merely  hinted  at,  the  partly  expressed  thought  In 
proof  of  this,  I  might  point  out  in  '  La  Camaraderie,'  a 
monologue  of  a  page  in  which  I  have  counted  eighty- 
three  of  those  little  dots.  Truly,  the  monologue  so 
full  of  reticence  is  that  of  a  young  girl,  and  young 
girls  proverbially  say  only  half  of  what  they  think. 

Certain  is  it,  though,  that  that  system  of  small  dots 
contains  a  wholly  new  school  of  stagecraft,  and  that 
Scribe  was  justified  in  saying  that  the  staging  of  a 
play  was  equivalent  to  a  second  creation,  to  adding  a 
new  piece  to  the  first. 

Those  who  never  saw  Scribe  conjure  up  a  dramatic 
work  from,  what  for  want  of  a  better  term,  I  may  call  the 
limbo  of  the  manuscript,  those  who  never  saw  Scribe 
'put  a  piece  on  the  ^ta-e'and  remain  with  it  until 
it  could  stand  alone,  only  know  half  of  the  real 
Scribe.  I  h  to  be  t  one  <lay  at  a 

:   I  happened  to  conn-  in  at 

the   very   moment   when    Scribe   was  arranging   the 
n  the  third  act     I  cannot  do  better 


148  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

than  ask  the  reader  to  picture  to  himself  a  general  on 
the  battlefield,  he  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere  at 
the  same  time,  he  was  enacting  every  part ;  at  one 
moment  he  was  the  crowd,  the  next  the  Prophet, 
the  next  the  woman,  then  striding  at  the  head  of  the 
insurgents  with  a  fierce  air,  his  spectacles  pushed  up 
to  his  forehead  ;  after  that,  and  with  his  spectacles  still 
on  his  forehead,  rushing  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stage,  and  enacting  the  part  of  Berthe,  pointing  out  to 
everyone  his  or  her  place,  marking  the  bounds  with 
a  piece  of  chalk,  at  the  exact  spot  where  this  or  that 
actor  had  to  stop  ;  in  short,  combining  so  skilfully  the 
evolution  of  his  diverse  characters  as  to  make  their 
most  animated  movements  perfectly  well  ordered  and 
investing  that  order  throughout  with  grace. 

No  sooner  was  the  third  act  finished  than  we  rushed 
away  to  the  Comedie-Franc^aise  to  attend  another 
rehearsal,  that  of  the  second  act  of  '  Les  Contes  de 
la  Reine  de  Navarre,'  an  act  altogether  different  from 
the  other,  an  act  played  by  four  characters  only,  an 
act  of  a  more  or  less  domestic,  home-like  nature. 

And  in  accordance  with  the  theme  Scribe  becomes 
all  of  a  sudden  a  different  man.  The  energy  dis- 
played but  half-an-hour  previously  in  handling  large 
masses  and  in  making  them  convey  by  their  gestures 
and  grouping  some  of  the  effects  of  popular  passions, 
that  energy  had  made  room  for  a  subtle,  critical 
faculty  of  interpreting  the  most  refined  and  delicately 
shaded  feelings.  Before  his  arrival  the  actors  them- 


Years  of  Recollections  149 

js  had  become  conscious  that  the  act  wanted  life, 
that  it  was  dragging  somewhat  heavily  along.  No 
sooner  does  he  set  his  foot  on  the  stage,  than,  without 
adding  a  word,  he  '  besprinkles '  the  dialogue  with 
such  telling  gestures,  such  effective  attitudes,  such 
ingenious  pauses,  he  avails  himself  so  adroitly  of  the 
chairs  and  tables,  as  of  so  many  advantages  of  posi- 
tion as  to  emphasise  the  situation  and  to  heighten 
the  interest.  His  characters  so  vague  in  outline  but  a 
minute  before,  now  stand  out  in  relief ;  the  action  of 
the  piece  becomes  clear,  animated  :  full  of  life;  a 
magician  had  touched  it  with  his  wand. 

Nor  is  that  all.  The  art  of  '  staging '  became  a 
kind  of  revelation  to  him.  By  the  light  of  that  small, 
dim  lamp  that  stood  on  the  ricketty  little  table  dur- 
ing rehearsals  his  manuscript  revealed  to  him  things 
he  did  not  suspect  of  being  there.  He  has  often 
told  me  what  happened  to  him  with  a  very  interesting 
drama,  entitled  '  Philippe,'  which  he  had  written  in 
conjunction  with  Bayard  and  which  turned  on  the 

i cry  of  an  illegitimate  birth. 

The  piece  opened  with  the  disclosure  of  that  secret. 

Scribe,    who    was    to    attend    the    rehearsals,    makes 

at    the    very    moment   the   actor    is 

iling  the  secret  to   the   public.     'It   is   too  soon,' 

;ins,  l\ve    must   put   off  that    iwrlation    till 

the    second     scene.'       Next    morning    the   revelation 

is   introduced    into   the  second  seen.-.        Too  soon,'  he 

aims   once    more,   'it    inu^t    he    put    off  till   the 


1 50  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

third  scene.'  The  revelation  was  put  off  accord- 
ingly, but  Scribe  still  considered  it  too  premature. 
He  kept  on  deferring  it  until  finally  the  original  ex- 
position became  the  denouement  of  the  piece. 

Nevertheless,  I  feel  bound  to  qualify  my  praise.  If 
Scribe  was  the  founder  of  the  modern  art  of '  staging,' 
it  is  but  fair  to  admit  that  two  important  parts  of  that 
art  were  utterly  beyond  his  ken.  He  had  no  know- 
ledge either  of  scenery  or  costumes.  Odd  to  relate,  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  an  imagination  going  farther 
a-field  than  Scribe's  and  remaining  so  thoroughly 
within  the  limits  of  home.  His  imagination  wandered 
through  every  country  of  the  world,  while  at  the 
same  time  it  always  remained  in  Paris.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  his  comic  operas  and  operas  he  put  :  *  The 
scene  of  the  piece  is  laid  at  St  Petersburg,'  *  The  scene 
of  the  piece  is  laid  in  Madrid,'  '  The  scene  of  the 
piece  is  laid  in  Pekin,'  notwithstanding  that  the 
scene  of  the  piece  was  virtually  in  Paris.  When  he 
wrote  the  words  '  an  inn,'  '  a  kitchen,'  '  a  palace,'  his 
'  mind's  eye '  always  perceived  the  selfsame  inn, 
kitchen  or  palace.  As  for  his  characters,  he  mentally 
decked  them  out  in  all  kinds  of  finery,  not  to  say  rags, 
which  had  not  the  slightest  connection  with  the 
country  in  which  those  characters  were  supposed  to 
live  and  act.  He  made  them  speak  and  bestir  them- 
selves, but  as  for  housing  and  clothing  them,  he  did 
not  trouble  about  it.  This  defect,  apparently  alto- 
gether on  the  outside,  was  due  to  the  deficiency  in  his 


:     )  \\irs  of  Recollections  1 5 1 

intellect  to  which  I  have  already  drawn  attention. 
He  lacked  the  gift  of  individualising.  Fortunately  he 
met  with  a  marvellous  collaborateur  in  M.  E.  Perrin. 
M.  E.  Perrin  who  had  not  only  an  instinctive  taste  for, 
but  a  practical  knowledge  of  scenery  and  costume  has 
often  told  me  of  Scribe's  amazement  at  the  sight  of 
the  transformation  of  his  interiors  and  characters  by 
a  consummate  stage  manager. 

I  feel  reluctant  to  wind  up  this  essay  on  Scribe  as  a 
dramatist  without  mentioning  another  of  his  collabora- 
teurs  who  may  be  termed  unique  in  his  own  way,  for 
that  collaborateur  was  nothing  less  than  a  king. 

About  1850  Scribe  adapted  Shakespeare's  'Tem- 
pest' into  an  operatic  libretto.*  The  English  were 
very  anxious  to  have  it  performed  in  London  and 
Scribe  went  thither  to  superintend  the  rehearsals. 
His  first  visit  on  the  day  after  his  arrival  was  to  Louis- 
Philippe.  Scribe  had  never  been  a  republican,  it  was 
one  of  the  rare  subjects  on  which  we  did  not  agree, 
he  had,  furthermore,  been  too  warmly  welcomed  at  the 
Tuileries  not  to  undertake  'a  pilgrimage'  to  Claremont. 

Those  who  knew  him  said  that  Louis-Philippe  was 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  talkers  of  his  time,  and  as  a 
matter  of  course,  he  gracefully  brought  the  conversa- 
tion round  to  the  subject  of  the  '  Tempest,'  then  all  of 
a  sudden,  in  a  semi-bantering,  semi-serious  tone,  he 
1  :  'Do  you  know,  M.  Scribe,  that  I  have 

•  Hale'vy,  the  composer  or  '  La  Juive'  was  in  London  with  Scribe  at 
that  time.     Was  it  his  opera  ?— TK 


152  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

the  honour  of  being  a  colleague  of  yours  ?  '  '  You, 
sire  ? '  '  Yes,  indeed,  I.  You  have  come  to  London 
for  an  opera ;  well,  I  also  wrote  an  opera  when  I  was 
a  young  man,  and  I  give  you  my  word  it  was  by  no 
means  bad.'  'I  can  well  believe  that,  sire;  you  have 
done  more  difficult  things  than  that.'  '  More  difficult 
to  you,  perhaps,  but  not  to  me.  I  took  for  my  sub- 
ject the  Cavaliers  and  Roundheads.'  'A  good  sub- 
ject, sire/  assented  the  author  of  '  Les  Huguenots.' 
'  Well,  I  happen  to  have  come  upon  the  manuscript 
very  recently.  Shall  I  give  you  an  idea  of  it?  I 
should  like  to  have  your  opinion  on  it.'  *  I  am  at 
your  disposal,  sire.' 

Thereupon,  Louis-Philippe  in  his  most  brilliant 
manner  starts  telling  Scribe  the  substance  of  his  first  act, 
and  at  first  Scribe  sits  listening,  respectfully,  without  in- 
terruption as  he  would  have  listened  to  a  speech  from 
the  throne, but  gradually,as  the  piece  proceeds,  the  play- 
wright's feelings  get  the  upper  hand  and  he  absolutely 
forgets  that  his  interlocutor  is,  or  at  any  rate  was,  a 
king  ;  he  forgets  everything  except  that  there  is  the 
scenario  of  an  opera  being  submitted  to  him,  and 
interrupting  the  speaker  at  a  faulty  passage,  he  says  : 
4  Oh,  that  won't  do  at  all.'  '  Why  won't  it  do  ? '  asks 
the  King,  slightly  nettled.  '  Because  it  is  improbable, 
and  what's  worse,  devoid  of  interest.'  '  Devoid  of 
interest,  devoid  of  interest,'  repeats  the  King.  *  My 
dear  Monsieur  Scribe,  just  allow  me.  .  .  .'  But  the 
King  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble ;  Scribe 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  1 5  3 

was  'off;'  their  respective  parts  had  been  reversed  ; 
it  was  the  author  who  was  the  king  for  the  moment. 
L  Do  you  know  what  you  want  there,  sire  ?  You  want 
a  love  scene  there.  Politics  are  well  enough  in  a  minis- 
terial council,  but  in  an  opera  we  must  have  the  love- 
passion.'  '  In  that  case,  let's  have  a  love  scene,' 
replies  Louis-Philippe,  laughing.  And  forthwith 
they  begin  to  devise  and  to  discuss  until  it  is  time 
fi  >r  Scribe  to  return  to  town.  '  Already,'  says  the 
King  ;  '  one  moment,  I'll  not  let  you  go  unless  you 
promise  me  to  come  and  lunch  with  me  to-morrow. 
Our  opera  is  not  finished.  I  shall  expect  you  to- 
morrow.' '  Very  well,  sire,  till  to-morrow.' 

Next  morning  on  arriving  at  Claremont  whom 
should  he  see  standing  sentry  at  the  door  of  the 
King's  study  ?  The  Queen,  who  was  watching  for  him, 
apparently  in  a  very  excited  state.  '  May  heaven 
bless  you,  M.  Scribe,'  she  said.  '  For  the  first  time 
since  we  left  Paris  the  King  dined  heartily  last  night. 
and  during  the  whole  of  the  evening  he  was  cheerful 
and  talked  a  good  deal.  This  morning  on  entering 
his  room  he  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  rubbing  his  fore- 
his  ancestor  Henri  IV  used  to  do  when  he 
felt  pu/./.led  and  saying  in  a  low  voice  to  himself, 
"  That  confounded  Scribe,  he  thinks  it  is  a  very  easy 
matter."  And  he  was  smiling  all  the  while.  Oh,  do 
come  back,  Monsieur  Scribe,  do  come  back  as  « 
as  you  can,  every  day  if  possible  while  you  are  in 
London.  Will  you  promise  me?' 


1 54  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

Scribe  promised  and  kept  his  word.  For  a  whole 
week  he  went  every  morning  to  pour  a  few  drops  of 
joy  on  that  broken  heart,  to  shed  a  few  rays  of  light 
into  that  mournful  home,  and  on  his  return  to  France 
he  brought  back  the  most  glorious  author's  fees 
he  had  ever  received  in  his  life,  the  gratitude  of  an 
exile,  the  affection  of  a  deposed  king  and  the  bless- 
ings of  a  woman  who  was  little  short  of  a  saint. 

These  recollections  would  be  very  incomplete  if  I 
omitted  to  show  Scribe  as  a  man  and  a  friend.  It 
would  be  worse  than  inaccuracy  on  my  part,  it  would 
be  a  want  of  gratitude.  One  day,  M.  Thiers,  allud- 
ing to  himself  said  to  me,  '  After  all  is  said  and  done, 
I  am  a  good  fellow.'  I  will  paint  Scribe  with  one 
word,  he  was  '  a  good  fellow '  in  every  possible  sense 
of  that  charming  word.  A  good  fellow  is  unaffected  ; 
a  good  fellow  is  lively  and  gay  ;  a  good  fellow  is  good 
and  kind  ;  a  good  fellow  is  artless,  if  not  always,  at 
any  rate  sometimes  ;  a  good  fellow  is  modest.  Well, 
Scribe  was  all  that.  We  may  take  it  that  he  could  not 
have  been  ignorant  of  his  own  merits.  Forty  years  of 
success  must  have  pretty  well  enlightened  him  in  that 
respect,  but  he  really  seemed  to  give  them  no  thought 
One  day  in  the  course  of  conversation  some  one 
quoted  enthusiastically  the  trenchant  remark  of 
Royer-Collard  with  regard  to  M.  *  *  *  '  He  is  not  an 
ass,  he  is  the  ass.'  '  I  don't  consider  that  so  very 
extraordinary,'  said  Scribe,  in  the  simplest  way  im- 
aginable, '  I  fancy  I  could  find  as  good.'  Is  not  this 


Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections  1 5  5 

delightful  from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  was  so  witty 
that  people  twitted  him  with  being  too  witty.' 

The  following  story  will,  however,  give  an  abso- 
lutely striking  portrait  of  him.  Scribe  generally 
spent  the  autumn  months  with  his  friends  in  the 
country.  In  the  evening  they  amused  themselves 
with  reading  English  novels,  and  the  reader  was  a 
poor  governess  who,  in  an  interval  between  two 
chapters,  said  with  a  sigh,  '  Ah,  if  I  could  only  realise 
my  dream.'  'And  what  may  your  dream  happen  to 
be,  mademoiselle  ?  '  asked  Scribe.  '  To  have  one  day, 
not  now,  but  many  years  hence,  an  income  of  twelve 
hundred  francs  a  year,  which  would  insure  my  peace 
and  quietness  and  independence.'  A  few  weeks  later, 
one  evening,  after  she  had  come  to  the  end  of  some 
nificant  novel,  Scribe  all  of  a  sudden  said  to  her, 
1  Do  you  know,  mademoiselle,  that  there  is  a  subject 
for  a  capital  one-act  comedy  in  that  story,  if  you  like 
we'll  write  it  together,  seeing  that  you  gave  me  the 
subject.'  As  a  matter  of  course  the  girl  was  but  too 
glad  to  accept.  Three  days  after,  Scribe  comes  down 
to  the  drawing-room  with  his  comedy  finished  and 
three  months  after  that  the  papers  announce  its  first 
performance.  On  the  morning  of  the  adver: 

,  Scribe  repairs  to  his  dramatic  agents.     *  To- 
night there  is  a  premiere  of  a  piece  of  mine,  which 
:>een  written   in  conjunction  with  a  lady,'  he  says. 
'  I  have  not  the  faintest   idea  what   the  result  will  be; 
this    much    I    do   know,    that    tin-    piece   will  *have   to 


1 56  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

yield  twelve  hundred  francs  a  year  for  life  to  the  joint- 
authoress.  You  may  arrange  the  matter  just  as  you 
please,  provided  it  looks  genuine.'  Rather  a  delicate 
proceeding  this  on  the  part  of  Scribe,  who  has  been 
so  often  accused  of  plagiarism,  but  who  in  this  in- 
stance did  not  borrow  his  plot  from  any  one,  and 
who,  I  fancy,  has  not  had  many  imitators  in  that  re- 
spect. But  the  best  of  the  story  has  to  be  told.  The 
governess  who  had  relished  her  success,  kept  con- 
stantly suggesting  to  Scribe  new  plots  for  comedies, 
drawn  from  English  novels,  which  Scribe  as  con- 
stantly declined  with  a  smile.  After  that,  the  gover- 
ness, whenever  they  praised  Scribe  to  her,  protested 
in  a  soft,  gentle,  cooing  tone.  '  Yes,  yes,  there  is  no 
doubt  about  it,  he  is  a  charming  young  fellow.  But 
I  am  afraid  gratitude  is  not  one  of  his  pet  virtues. 
We  wrote  a  very  pretty  piece  together,  seeing  that 
it  brings  us  each  twelve  hundred  francs  per  annum, 
why  does  he  refuse  to  write  another  ? '  Scribe  never 
dispelled  her  illusion. 

Assuredly  a  man  who  is  not  only  superior  to  most 
men  but  a  good  fellow  to  boot  is  a  delightful  phe- 
nomenon, not  to  mention  the  splendid  faculty  of  im- 
agination which  not  only  concocts  a  pretty  piece  out 
of  an  indifferent  novel,  but  makes  it  the  basis  of  a 

kindly  action. 

V 

I  have  now  come  to  the  most  'delicate  point 
in  this  essay.  No  doubt,  old  chums  occupied  a 


.V/'r/r   Years  of  Recollections  157 

large  space  in  Scribe's  life  ;  but  'petticoats'  occupied 
a  still  greater.  The  latter  enacted  as  many  parts 
in  his  existence  as  they  enacted  in  his  pieces,  or 
to  put  it  correctly,  they  have  all  enacted  the  same 
part.  Where,  in  fact,  could  he  have  found  so  many 
delightful  love  scenes,  if  not  in  his  own  heart?  A 
woman  who  knew  Scribe  *  very  well,'  who,  in  fact,  had 
had  every  possible  opportunity  of  knowing  him  well, 
once  gave  me  a  description  of  '  Scribe  in  love.'  I  am 
alluding  to  Jenny  Vertpre  to  whom  Horace  Walpole's 
mot  on  Mme.  de  Choiseul  might  well  apply  :  *  She  is 
the  prettiest  little  fairy  that  ever  came  out  of  a  fairy 
egg,'  for  it  is  the  portrait  of  Jenny  Vertpre  herself.  A 
young  general  of  the  First  Empire  having  come  to 
bid  her  good-bye  just  before  starting  for  Russia,  could 
not  withstand  the  temptation  and  carried  her  off  in 
his  big  cloak,  and  snugly  ensconced  in  their  carriage, 
they  got  as  far  as  Dantzig,  she  cosily  wrapped  up  in  the 
cloak,  like  a  bird  in  its  nest.  She  was  only  sixteen, 
with  eyes  like  a  squirrel's,  gleaming  little  teeth  like 
those  of  a  mouse,  and  hair  the  hue  of  the  raven's  wing. 
And  with  it  all,  such  a  figure  and  such  a  smile,  not  to 
mention  her  cleverness.  When  Scribe  drew  the 
delightful  character  of  Mnu-.  1'inehon,  he  wrote  to  her 
as  follows  :  '  My  dear  Jenny  ;  I  have  drawn  a  part  for 
you,  made  up  of  your  own  say  She  was  the 

m  actor  of  the  Vaudeville  and  had  grown 
up  side  by  side,  in  fact,  on  the  same  story  of  the 
same  house  with  Dejazet.  Every  morning  the  two 


158  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

little  girls  went  down  to  buy  the  milk  and  the  char- 
coal for  the  two  households.  Trotting  about  together 
they  compared  notes  as  to  their  respective  school 
learning.  Dejazet  could  read,  and  Jenny  Vertpre 
knew  her  catechism.  The  latter  fact  elicited  the 
serious  admission  of  Dejazet  years  afterwards  to 
Jenny,  that  she  loved  her  very  much,  '  because  it  is  to 
you  I  owe  my  religious  principles.'  *  The  comic  part 
of  the  business/  added  Jenny  laughing,  '  was  that  she 
meant  what  she  said,  for  Dejazet  has  always  been 
very  devout.  She  always  went  to  mass  in  the  little 
village  where  she  lived,  after  she  retired  from  the 
stage.' 

From  Dejazet  I  led  Jenny  Vertpr6  to  talk  about 
Scribe. 

'  Oh,  the  scamp,'  she  said,  *  he  would  not  have  been 
able  to  begin  work  without  at  least  half-a-dozen  letters 
from  as  many  women  on  his  table.'  '  What  was  he  like 
when  young ? '  'A  kind  of  face  such  as  one  might 
find  described  in  a  passport.  Nose  average,  forehead 
average,  chin  average,  shape  average,  somewhat  heavy. 
What  distinguished  him  from  the  crowd  was  a  pair 
of  small  green  eyes,  full  of  mischief  and  sparkle  and 
never  still,  beneath  enormous,  bushy  eyebrows.  But 
there  was  above  all,  his  mouth,  with  two  dimpled 
corners  like  a  child's.  And  with  it  all  amusing,  spruce 
and  neat,  with  soft,  cajoling  ways,  a  regular  "  boobfy."  ' 
I  protested.  *  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,'  she  added 
with  her  diabolical  little  smile,  '  it  was  a  positive  sin 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 59 

to  deceive  him,  it  was  as  easy  as  A,  B,  C.'  I  felt  down- 
right astonished.  Scribe  easily  deceived.  '  You  are 
surprised,'  she  went  on.  '  That  shows  you  did  not 
know  the  Scribe  of  my  days.  My  dear  fellow,  he 
was  an  absolute  simpleton.' 

To  this  portrait  from  a  woman's  lips  I  may  add 
another,  drawn  by  Scribe  himself.  We  were  talking 
about  the  Gymnase  and  the  celebrated  actor  Gontier. 
'  Gontier,'  said  Scribe,  *  was  very  clever  at  caricaturing 
people.  One  day,  in  the  green-room,  after  having 
drawn  several  actors  and  actresses  with  more  than  his 
ordinary  success,  he  starts  another  sketch  which 
simply  sets  them  all  in  a  roar  and  frantic  with  delight. 
I  am  the  only  one  who  does  not  join  in  the  general 
merriment.  "Who  is  this  ?  "  I  ask.  "  I  don't  know 
that  thickhead."  Thereupon  the  laughter  grows  all 
the  louder.  That  "thickhead"  was  myself  This 
Scribe,  every  inch  of  him  ;  never  endeavouring 
to  make  himself  out  better  than  he  was,  never  pluin- 

himself  upon  anything,  ever  holding  his  tor 
about  his  love  affairs. 

One  night  at  the  Opera  ball,  a  masked  woman 
comes  up  to  him,  begins  to  talk  and  finally  puts  her 
arm  in  his.  Her  very  walk  showed  that  >he  was 
young,  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  flashing  through  the 
apertures  in  her  mask,  bred  the  supposition  that  she- 
was  good-looking.  The  con  n  becomes  more 
and  more  animated;  the  masked  womai  d  to 
be  clever  and  Sci  ul  more  i  He 


160  .SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

also  begins  to  talk  cleverly,  becomes  more  pressing 
and   his   companion's    resistance   grows   fainter   and 
fainter.     He  offers  the  hospitality  of  his  bachelor's 
quarters  and  the  offer  is  accepted.     In  those  days  he 
lived  near  the  Bourse,  on  the  third  floor  of  a  large 
house.     Off  they  go,  in  a  little  while  they  reach  his 
home   and    are  ascending   the   staircase.      All   of    a 
sudden    when  they  get   to  the   first  story,  the  lady 
stops.     '  We  are  not  there,  yet,'  says    Scribe.     '  In- 
deed, we  are,'  says  the  lady.     '  I  am  sorry  to  contra- 
dict you,'  replies  Scribe  merrily,  '  one  of  these  days  I 
may  be  fortunate  enough -to  live  on  the  first  floor,  but 
at  present.  .  .  .'     '  At  present,'  interrupts   the   lady, 
taking  off  her  mask,  *  at  present  it  is  I  who  am  living 
there.'     '  I  don't  understand,  madame  ?  '     '  Yes,  mon- 
sieur, this  is  my  domicile,  and  now,  good  neighbour, 
allow  me  to  thank  you  with  all  my  heart.      I   lost 
my  husband  in  the  crowd  and  felt  dead  frightened. 
Fortunately   for  me  I  happened  to  fall  in  with  the 
most  charming  of  knight-errants  who,  for  my  edifica- 
tion, improvised  one  of  the  most  delightful  episodes 
and  love  scenes  he  ever  put  in  his  comedies,  with  the 
prettiest  denouement  possible,  for  all  of  which  kind- 
ness I  feel  sincerely  obliged  and  for  which  my  hus- 
band will  come  to  thank  him  personally  to-morrow.' 
Thereupon  she  sweetly  curtsies   to    Scribe   and  dis- 
appears through  her  own  doorway,  leaving  him  on  the 
landing,  looking  more  or  less  sheepish,  confused  and 
grieved.     Whether  the  lady  felt  touched  by  his  re- 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  161 

proachful  and  regretful  parting  glance,  I  am  unable  to 
say.  The  little  comedy  in  one  act  may  have  had  a 
sequel,  but  Scribe  never  breathed  a  syllable  of  it. 

All  his  adventures,  though,  did  not  miscarry  like 
this,  inasmuch  as  he  by  no  means  took  his  love-affairs 
in  a  tragical  spirit.  He  did  not  pretend  to  enact  the 
Antony.  As  long  as  the  girl  was  pretty,-  good- 
tempered  and  kind  he  did  not  trouble  about  the  rest, 
and  if  she  deceived  him,  provided  it  was  done  with  a 
certain  amount  of  cleverness,  he  put  a  good  face 
upon  the  matter  by  being  the  first  to  laugh  at  it. 
In  those  days  there  was  a  favourite  actress  at  the 
Vaudeville  of  the  name  of  Pauline,  with  the  most 
magnificent  pair  of  black  eyes  I  have  ever  seen  in 
my  life.  Brunet  was  her  manager  and  he  managed 
to  direct  her  away  from  the  paths  of  virtue.  About 
the  same  period,  Scribe  appeared  upon  the  scene  with 
a  piece  that  ran  for  a  hundred  nights.  Pauline  took 
a  fancy  to  him,  which  drove  Brunet  to  despair  at  first, 
though  he  managed  to  resign  himself  to  the  fact 
afterwards.  He  made  up  for  his  misfortunes  as  a 
lover  by  his  success  as  a  manager.  Pauline  virtually 
Scribe  to  the  theatre  with  silken  bonds,  and  all 
would  have  i  11  but  for  the  advent  of  a  third 

thief  in  the  shape  of  the  handsome  Dartois.     That 
was  more  than   Brunet  could  bear,  and  lie  rushed  to 
Scribe's  house.     'My  dear  fellow,'  lie  exclaimed  in  a 
>air  *  we  are  being  deceived.'     That  we 

'ed  Scribe  to  such  a;  ;   that  he  forgot  his 

II  L 


1 62  Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections 

own  grief.     The ////;-#/  had  the  effect  of  reconciling 
him  to  the  pluralism  of  pretty  Pauline. 

Things  did  not  always  work  so  smoothly,  whether 
his  inamoratas  were  faithful  or  not.  When  he  was 
about  forty,  in  addition  to  the  casual  and  unimportant 
love-affairs  which  cropped  up  as  frequently  in  his 
existence  as  they  did  in  his  pieces,  in  addition  to  these 
he  had  two  serious  liaisons  which  every  now  and  then 
led  to  very  comic  predicaments.  His  two  lady- 
loves were  both  married  women,  but  separated  from 
their  husbands,  consequently  with  all  their  time  at 
their  disposal,  which  fact  militated  against  his  own 
freedom.  The  mistress'  freedom  means  the  servitude 
of  her  admirer.  At  that  particular  period  the  whole 
of  Paris  was  rushing  to  see  '  Les  Pilules  du  Diable.' 
As  a  matter  of  course,  Scribe  goes  to  see  the  piece, 
which  does  not  strike  him  as  very  amusing.  On  his 
return  at  night,  he  finds  the  following  little  note, 
'Every  one  ;  is  talking  of  "  Les  Pilules  du  Diable," 
which  I  am  longing  to  see.  Take  a  box  for  to- 
morrow, I'll  be  with  you  at  seven.'  *  Hum,'  grunts 
Scribe,  two  doses  of  these  pills  in  twenty-four  hours 
is  rather  too  much  of  a  good  thing.  I  suppose  there 
is  no  help  for  it,  so  I  had  better  get  the  box.'  He 
swallows  the  second  dose  which  he  relishes  even  less 
than  the  first  and  gets  home,  not  in  the  brightest 
of  tempers.  On  his  table  lies  a  second  note,  couched 
as  follows, '  My  dear  boy,  they  have  worked  me  up  to 
such  a  pitch  about  "  Les  Pilules  du  Diable,"  that  I  am 


Si.i'fy   Years  of  Recollections  163 

positively  dying  to  see  it,  especially  with  you.  Will 
to-morrow  night  suit  you  ?  of  course  it  will.  Take  a 
box  on  the  ground  tier.  I  am  looking  forward  to  my 
evening  with  you  as  a  great  treat.' 

As  usual,  Scribe  resigned  himself  to  his  fate,  for 
with  his  kind  disposition,  his  insuperable  reluctance 
to  distress  people,  but  especially  a  woman,  he  had  not 
the  courage  to  break  off  his  relations  with  either  of 
them.  The  utmost  he  did  was  to  slacken  his  chain 
by  means  of  some  stratagem.  One  of  his  two  queens 
and  charmers,  the  elder  by  priority  or  age,  I  do  not 
know  which,  had  exacted  a  promise  that  he  should 
pay  her  a  visit  every  day  from  five  till  six.  In  ex- 
acting this  promise  the  lady  had  not  been  prompted 
altogether  by  affection,  or  at  any  rate,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  calculation  in  that  affection.  She  was 
anxious  to  have  this  daily  call  construed  into  a 
public  recognition  of  her  sway  over  Scribe.  He 
faithfully  kept  the  appointment,  only  two  or  three 
times  a  week,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so  of 
conversation,  he  took  up  his  stand  against  the  mantel- 
1  putting  his  arm  behind  his  back,  managed 
to  put  forward  the  hand  of  the  clock;  then  turning 
mimd,  he  exclaimed:  'Six  o'clock  already,  I  must 
go!  How  quickly  t  in  your  company.' 

Goethe  tells  us  that  he  transformed  his  love  sorrows 

1  that  his  ;_;rief  vanished,  borne  away  on 

the  uin.;s  ..f  his  muse.     Scribe  avenged  himself  for 

the  th'.usand   and  CUM  liliputian  bonds, 


164  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

by  converting  them  into  two  of  his  most  delightful 
comedies,  viz. :  '  Les  Malheurs  d'un  amant  heureux/ 
and  '  Une  Chaine.'  Finally  though,  when  about  fifty 
he  became  once  more  master  of  his  own  destiny  by 
a  bold  stroke — he  got  married.  That  denouement 
may  be  reckoned  among  one  of  the  very  best  of  all 
his  comedies.  First  of  all,  like  the  skilful  playwright 
he  was,  he  prepared  that  denouement  long  beforehand. 
At  the  outset  of  his  double  liaison  he  had  declared 
on  his  oath  to  both  his  mistresses,  not  once  but  a 
hundred  times  that,  had  they  been  free,  he  would 
have  married  them.  Later  on  he  swore  to  them  that 
if  they  became  widows  he  would  marry  them.  '  The 
years  are  going  by,'  he  said  to  them,  '  I  will  wait  for 
you  until  I  am  fifty.  But  let  it  be  understood  that 
at  fifty,  if  you  are  not  free,  I  will  be.'  Heaven  alone 
could  tell  of  the  fervent  supplications  he  addressed 
to  it  for  the  health  and  long  life  of  those  two  hus- 
bands. Not  his  best  friend  inspired  him  with  a 
similar  solicitude  for  his  wellbeing.  Heaven  granted 
his  prayers,  both  husbands  kept  their  health.  He 
married  as  he  had  said  he  would,  shortly  after  his 
fiftieth  birthday,  and  three  months  after  his  marriage 
both  husbands  departed  this  life.  '  Great  heavens, 
can  you  imagine  my  position  if  that  misfortune  had 
happened  three  months  earlier  ?  '  he  exclaimed.  '  How 
could  I  have  possibly  got  out  of  the  difficulty  ?  The 
very  thought  of  it  makes  me  shudder.  After  all/  he 
added,  '  I  could  not  have  married  them  both.' 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  165 

With   his    married    life,   Scribe   entered   upon  the 
happiest  period  of  an  existence  which  had  been  happy 
throughout.     His  reputation  was  at  its  zenith  and  the 
full  cup  of  unalloyed  joy  at  his  lips.    *  My  dear  fellow,' 
he  often  said,  *  up  till  now  I  only  knew  what  pleasure 
meant,  at  present    I    know  what  happiness  means.' 
His   wife    was    comparatively   young,    barely   thirty, 
good-looking,  lively,  kind-hearted    and   a  woman  of 
parts.     Beranger,  who  knew  her  and  whose  songs  she 
sang  in  a  very  talented  manner,  said  of  her  that  she 
was  strong  enough  intellectually  to  govern  an  empire. 
Twelve  years  went  by  in  that  way  without  the  faintest 
shadow  on  the  picture,  without  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 
After  that  period  when  I  happened  to  remind  him  one 
morning  of  the  almost  unheard-of  and  uninterrupted 
success  and  happiness  of  his  life,  he  said  to  me  in 
a  sad  tone :  '  No  one  knows  where  the  shoe  pinches 
except  he  that  wears  it.'     I  dared  not  question  him, 
but  I  noticed  that  from  that  day  forward  his  imagina- 
tion was  not  as  bright  as  it  had  been.     When  talking 
about  the  subject  of  a  play,  he  invariably  proposed 
painful  and  more  or  less  bitter  subjects.      'You  have 
often  asked  me,'  he  said  one  day,  '  to  provide  a  sequel 
to  our  four  brilliantly  successful   pieces.     Well,   I'll 
give  you  a  title  which  is  an  i<le.i  in   itself.'     '  I.i-t  us 
hear   tl  !     aid      '  L'Amour  d'un  Vieillard ' 

(The  love-passion  of  an  old  man.)     I  could  not  help 
which  he  went  on  quickly.     '  Wait  a 
moment.1    he    said.       '  I     have    no    intention    to    write 


1 66  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

another  "Hernani"  or  "6cole  des  Vieillards."  What 
I  would  like  to  portray  is  the  sorrows  of  an  old  man 
who  is  being  tenderly  beloved.  Do  you  follow  my 
meaning,  he  said  "  tenderly  beloved."  '  '  Yes,  yes,  I 
understand  ;  it  would  be  the  companion  picture  to 
"  Les  Malheurs  d'un  amant  heureux."  But  would 
the  subject  be  interesting  to  the  public  ?  '  '  Undoubt- 
edly it  would,  for  it  would  be  absolutely  new,  true 
and  I  might  say,  tragic.  It  would  deal  with  a  secret 
phase  of  human  life  which  has  up  till  now  escaped 
observation,  at  any  rate  as  far  as  the  stage  goes. 
We  men  may  and  often  do  love  an  ugly  woman,  a 
stupid  woman,  even  a  spiteful  and  bad-tempered 
woman,  but  never  an  old  woman.  On  the  other  hand 
with  women,  and  I  say  this  in  their  praise,  for  it 
proves  that  their  love  proceeds  from  their  souls  more 
often  than  it  does  with  us,  the  fame  of  a  man,  his 
talent,  his  heroism  may  blind  them  to  his  years. 
General  Cavaignac  was  over  fifty  when  in  June  (1848) 
he  saved  Paris  from  a  revolution.  That  victory 
aroused  the  enthusiasm  of  several  girls  who  fell  in 
love  with  and  wanted  to  marry  him.'  '  My  dear 
friend,'  I  answered,  '  to  that  instance  I  could  add  one 
much  more  striking  and  which  bears  absolutely  on 
your  subject.  The  old  man  of  whom  I  want  to  tell  you 
was  over  sixty  and  your  title  seems  expressly  made 
for  him,  so  much  did  he  suffer  from  loving  and  being 
beloved.'  'Who  was  that,  I  wonder?  Beranger?' 
1  Yes,  Beranger,  it  is  evident  that  you  do  not  know 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  167 

the  tiling  that  befell  him  at  Tours.'  *  No,  I  do  not 
know  it.'  '  Very  well,  let  me  tell  you.  B£ranger 
who  had  retired  temporarily  to  Tours  met  with  a 
young  girl,  an  English  girl,  who  became  so  deeply 
enamoured  of  him  that  she  proposed  to  leave  every- 
thing and  to  elope  with  him.  What  was  the  result? 
That  he,  B£ranger,  the  man  who  had  sung  "  Fr£tillon  " 
and  "  Lisette "-  and  who  until  then  had  known  none 
but  facile  and  evanescent  love-adventures  became 
deeply  enamoured  at  the  age  of  sixty-two,  that  he 
conceived  a  mad,  intense  passion  which  pierced  his 
heart  like  an  arrow,  which  fired  his  soul  like  a  blaze. 
But  he  remained  B£ranger,  he  knew  that  that  girl  had 
a  father  and  mother  whose  joy  and  pride  she  was. 
He  was  not  going  to  end  up  a  long  honourable  exist- 
ence by  committing  an  infamous  act ;  a  man  does 
not  rid  himself  at  will  of  three  score  of  years  of 
honesty  and  uprightness.  He  would  have  become  an 
object  of  horror  and  disgust  to  himself,  if,  however 
madly  in  love,  he  had  taken  advantage  of  that  young 
blind  and  unreasoning  passion.  By  a  tremend- 
ous effort  of  will  he  tore  himself  away  from  Tours 
awl  hid  himself  in  a  small  village  near  Paris,  at 
Fontenay,  like  some  poor,  wounded  animal  which 
withdraws  to  the  dense  growth  in  the  wood  to  let  the 
blood  from  his  wounds  flow  freely  and  then  cleanses 
i  in  the  limpid  forest-brook.  During  a  whole 
twelvemonth,  mark  what  I  tell  you,  during  a  whole 
twelvemonth,  he  lived  there  by  him.sdf.  withholding 


1 68  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

his  address  from  his  dearest  friends,  disguising  him- 
self by  means  of  large  blue  spectacles  in  order  to 
escape  recognition  and  patiently  awaiting  there,  while 
wandering  through  the  woods,  the  end  of  his  agony. 
He  had  the  reward  of  his  courage,  at  the  end  of  the 
twelvemonth  he  went  back  into  the  world,  if  not 
absolutely  cured,  at  any  rate  perfectly  self-controlled.' 
I  had  got  thus  far  with  my  story,  when  Scribe,  who 
had  been  listening  with  intense  emotion,  turned  very 
pale,  and  pressing  his  hands  against  one  another, 
said  all  of  a  sudden  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice,  and 
with  ill-suppressed  sobs :  '  My  dear  good  friend, 
Be>anger's  story  is  absolutely  like  mine.'  *  Like 
yours  ?  '  I  exclaimed  in  amazement  '  Yes,  I  also,  at 
the  age  of  sixty  or  more,  have  suddenly,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life  felt  that  bewildering,  maddening 
sensation  which  we  call  an  intense  passion.  I  also 
met,  not  with  a  young  girl,  but  with  a  young  woman, 
willing  to  throw  everything  to  the  winds  for,  to  sacri- 
fice everything  to,  me.  And  like  Be"ranger,  I  beheld, 
uprising  before  me,  my  advanced  age,  my  life,  all  I 
have  been,  and  all  I  have  done.  You  have  just  said 
it,  a  man  does  not  rid  himself  at  will  of  an  honourable 
and  honest  past.  All'  the  pieces  in  which  I  have  sung 
the  praises  and  the  holiness  of  the  matrimonial  tie,  of 
the  purity  of  home  life,  of  love  hallowed  by  reason, 
flung  their  weight  upon  me  at  once.  Then,  there  was 
my  wife,  my  dear  wife  whom  I  would  have  driven  to 
despair.  And  there  was  something  else  besides.  I 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 69 

was  thinking  of  my  enemies,  my  enemies  in  the  press 
who  would  have  soon  discovered  the  secret  and  con- 
verted it  into  a  scandal.     Did  not  they  go  as  far  to 
incriminate  even  my  paternal  affection  for  one  of  my 
nieces.     When    I  came  to  reflect   upon  all  this,  my 
commonsense,  my  most   deep-seated    affections,  my 
horror  of  having  my  name  bruited  about,  gave  me 
courage  and  a  twelvemonth  ago  I  broke  off  what  as 
yet  was  not  a  bond.     But  heaven  alone  knows  at  the 
cost  of  how  much  suffering.     One  single  fact  will  be 
sufficient  to  prove  that  to  you.     About  a  month  ago 
I  went  back  to  society  for  the  first  time ;  namely,  to 
a  grand  ball  at  the  Hotel-de-Ville.     The  first  person 
I  saw  on  entering   the   grand   gallery  was   she,  she 
radiant    with   beauty   and   animation,   and    waltzing 
round  with  a  charming  young  fellow.    One  look  at  her 
sufficient.     Jealousy  sees  more  in  one  glance  than 
a  hundred  pair  of  ordinary  eyes.     I  understood,  as  if 
I  had  read  it  in  an  open  book  that,  deserted  by  me 
she  had,  cither  out  of  pique  or  from  innate  fickleness 
herself  headlong  into  some  other  love-passion, 
young  fellow  with  whom  she  was  dancing  was 
lover.     I    felt   such   a  sharp   pang  at  my  heart 
that  I  sank  back  on  the  nearest  couch,  utterly  undone 
and  remained  motionless  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
When  I  rose  to  go,  I  found  myself  confronted  with  an 
unknown  personage  who  was  so  pale  and  looked  so 
•  le^pair.  that  I  could  not  help  sayii 
>r    fellow,    how    much    he    must    have 


1 70  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

suffered.  The  poor  fellow  was  no  one  but  myself.  I 
had  passed  in  front  of  a  looking  glass  and  had  failed 
to  recognise  my  own  face.  In  short,  my  dear  friend, 
if  you  and  I  were  to  go  out  at  this  moment  and  if  I 
were  to  run  against  her  suddenly  in  the  street,  I  feel 
that  I  should  drop  senseless  on  the  pavement' 

This  disclosure  on  Scribe's  part  had  the  effect  of 
drawing  me  still  closer  to  him,  a  wholly  new  man  had 
been  revealed  to  me.  He  had  shown  an  intensity  of 
passion  the  capacity  for  which  I  did  not  as  much  as 
suspect,  a  heroism  of  which  I  did  not  think  him 
capable. 

His  energetic  resistance  met  with  its  reward.  In 
the  course  of  time  even  the  scar  of  his  painful  wound 
disappeared  ;  the  last  years  of  his  life  were  years  of 
happiness  and  by  his  sudden  death,  which  struck  us 
all  like  a  thunderclap  he  was  spared  the  sadness 
almost  inseparable  from  moral  and  physical  decline. 
Twenty-six  years  have  gone  by  since  that  sorrowful 
March  day  in  1861,  and  at  present  when  I  look  back 
upon  him  through  the  vista  of  the  past  he  is  to  me 
what  I  feel  convinced  he  will  remain  to  posterity — 
the  most  complete  representative  of  French  theatrical 
art  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Some  of  his  contem- 
poraries did,  no  doubt,  surpass  him  in  many  phases 
of  that  art,  but  not  one  has  possessed  in  the  same 
degree,  the  two  fundamental  qualities  of  our  national 
art,  invention  and  the  faculty  of  composition.  No 
one  created  so  many  subjects  for  dramatic  represen- 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  171 

tations  as  he.  No  one  proved  himself  master  of  so 
many  different  genres  as  he.  No  one  knew  as  well  as 
he,  how  to  lay  down  the  basis  of  a  plot,  to  conduct  it 
through  its  various  windings,  to  tie  and  untie  its 
knots.  Here  is  a  final  and  conclusive  proof  of  his 
talent.  In  two  of  the  genres  he  illustrated  he  was 
without  a  rival  during  his  own  lifetime  and  has  had 
no  successor  since  he  died.  Who  since  that  death 
has  written  a  beautiful  libretto  for  an  opera  or  a 
masterpiece  in  the  way  of  a  comic  opera?  I  will  not 
venture  to  call  Scribe  a  man  of  genius,  but  he  had 
certainly  a  remarkable  genius  for  the  drama,  and 
withal  so  original  that  no  literature  has  produced,  I 
will  not  say  his  equal,  but  an  author  analogous  to 
him.  Scribe  deserves  to  have  applied  to  him  the 
line  of  Michelet  on  Alexandre  Dumas  :  '  He  is  one 
of  Nature's  forces.' 


CHAPTER    V 

Rachel.— Why '  Adrienne  Lecouvreur '  was  written.— Rachel  changes  her 
mind;  the  Piece  declined  by  the  Committee  of  the  Comedie- 
Frangaise.— The  Race  of  Managers  to  get  hold  of  the  Play.— M. 
Legouve's  determination  to  impose  the  Play  upon  Rachel.— His 
success.— Rachel  at  Rehearsal.— An  evil  foreboding.— Rachel  asks 
M.  Legouve  for  another  Piece.— He  writes  it.— The  result.— Rachel 
as  a  Dramatic  Adviser. — Rachel  in  her  True  Character. — Her  last 
Days. 


As  I  have  already  said,  *  Adrienne  Lecouvreur' 
had  been  written  at  the  request  of  Mdlle.  Rachel,  I 
might  say  at  her  earnest  entreaty.  But  the  few 
months  we  spent  in  writing  the  piece,  were  spent  by 
Mdlle.  Rachel  in  taking  a  dislike  to  it.  Fickle  both 
by  imagination  and  by  temperament,  her  lack  of 
firmness  aggravated  the  defect.  She  consulted 
everybody,  and  anyone  could  influence  her.  The 
mere  banter  of  a  critic  was  enough  to  set  her 
against  an  idea,  which  but  five  minutes  before  had 
delighted  her,  and  the  same  thing  happened  in  the 
case  of '  Adrienne.'  Her  would-be  advisers  managed 
to  frighten  her  about  this  projected  excursion  into 
the  realms  of  drama.  The  idea  of  Hermione  and 


ty    Years  of  Recollections  173 

Pauline  condescending  to  speak  in  prose,  the  daughter 
of  Corneille  and  Racine  becoming  the  godchild  of 
M.  Scribe  seemed  nothing  less  than  sacrilege  to  them. 
Hence,  on  the  day  appointed  for  the  reading  of  the 
piece,  Mdlle.  Rachel  came  to  the  meeting  of  the  Com- 
mittee, fully  resolved  to  decline  the  part.  Everyone 
had  made  it  a  point  to  come.  The  actresses,  who 
at  that  time  were  privileged  to  vote,  mingled  with 
the  actors,  and  a  certain  '  Daniel-come-to-judgment ' 
air  which  pervaded  the  meeting,  inspired  me  on  en- 
tering with  evil  forebodings.  Scribe  took  up  the 
manuscript,  and  began  to  read.  I  ensconced  myself 
in  an  armchair,  and  began  to  '  take  stock.'  In  another 
moment  or  so  two  comedies  were  being  unfolded 
before  me,  ours  and  the  other;  the  latter  a  silent 
one,  enacted  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  the  socti- 
-v.  Vaguely  apprised  of  the  secret  intentions  of 
their  illustrious  fellow-actress,  they  were  virtually  in 
a  predicament. 

A  play  written  for  Mdlle.  Rachel,  and  in  which  she 
no  longer  desired  to  act,  might,  if  accepted  by  the 
Committee,  i,  is  difficulties,  nay  to  liti- 

gation.    The  Committee-,  therefore,  took  their  rue  for 
the  verdict  on  '  Adrienne'   from    Mdlle.  Rachel's  face  ; 

:,ice  remaining  absolutely  unmoved,  theirs  foil* 
suit.     During  those  five  long  acts,  she  neither  smiled. 
applauded,  nor  ^  ^n  of  approval ;  they  neither 

approved,  a} >;  led.    The  general  a] 

so  thorough,  that  Scribe,  fancying  that  one  of  our 


174  S'.vty   Years  of  Recollections 

judges  was    about   to   drop   into   a   sound   slumber 
stopped  short  and  observed : 

1  Don't  mind  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  beg  of  you.' 
The  socittaire  in  question  protested  most  strongly 
against  the  soft  impeachment,  and  that  was  the  sole 
effect  produced  throughout.  Stay,  I  am  mistaken, 
there  was  another,  or  at  any  rate  the  beginning  of 
one.  In  the  last  scene  but  one  of  the  fifth  act,  Mdlle. 
Rachel,  impressed  by  the  situation  in  spite  of  herself, 
slightly  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  in  which  up  till 
then  she  had  been  apparently  buried.  She  evidently 
thought  it  worth  her  while  to  be  interested  and  to 
listen,  but  seeing  that  I  noticed  the  movement  she 
immediately  collapsed,  and  resumed  her  stony  look. 
When  Scribe  had  finished  reading,  he  and  I  passed 
into  the  room  of  the  director,  who  in  a  few  minutes 
joined  us.  In  a  tone  of  regret,  which  we  accepted  as 
sincere,  he  told  us  that  Mdlle.  Rachel  failed  to  *  fancy 
herself  in  the  part  we  had  written  for  her,  and  as 
the  play  had  been  written  at  her  own  and  special  re- 
quest the  Committee  would  prefer  to  consider  the 
reading  as  null  and  void.  '  In  other  words,'  said 
Scribe,  'our  piece  is  rejected.  Very  well !  Every  dog 
has  his  day.' 

Next  morning  three  different  managers  called  to 
ask  us  for  our  play.  Scribe  was  fond  of  reprisals  that 
looked  like  revenges,  and  considered  that  they  should 
be  inflicted,  '  red  hot '  ;  he,  therefore  wanted  to  accept, 
but  I  objected.  '  My  dear  friend,'  said  I  to  him,  '  the 


Si.vty   Years  of  Recollections  \  ;  5 

piece  was  written  for  the  The.atre-Frangais,  and  the 
Theatre-Fransais  shall  produce  it.  The  part  was 
written  for  Mdlle.  Rachel,  and  Rachel  shall  play 
it.' 

'But  how  will  you  make  her  do  it?'  'That  I  do 
not  know  at  present,  but  it  must  and  shall  be?  In 
the  course  of  our  work  to  which  you  have  contributed 
the  lion's  share,  you  were  kind  enough  to  tell  me 
more  than  once,  that  I  understand  the  part  of 
Adrienne  better  than  yourself.  Indeed  I  may  say 
that  I  have  always  discerned  a  new  kind  of  stage 
character  in  that  tragic  actress,  who  has  slowly  been 
converted  to  the  noble  sentiments  of  the  tragic 
heroines  she  represents,  in  that  interpreter  of  Cor- 
neille,  some  of  whose  greatness  has  gradually  been  in- 

1  in  her  blood.  Well,  in  my  opinion  that  char- 
acter should  not  be  played  on  any  other  stage  but 
that  devoted  to  the  masterpieces  of  Corneillc.' 

The   evident   sincerity  of  my  conviction  had    the 

t  of  convincing  Scribe  ;  it  was  nevertheless  a  hard 
tussle.  The  aforementioned  directors  returned  to  the 
charge  and  with  greater  vigour  ;  one  of  these  in  order 
to  force  our  hand,  said  :  '  My  leading  lady  has  never 
had  a  chance  yet  to  die  on  the  stage,  and  would  be 
delighted  to  die  of  poison.'  This  argument,  hov. 
specious,  failed  to  influence  me,  but  six  months 
having  elapsed  without  a  change  in  the  position, 
Scribe  declared  that  he  would  wait  no  longer.  '  I  will 
only  ask  you  to  wait  for  another  week,1  I  .1 


1 76  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

'  You  intended  to  spend  six  or  seven  days  at  Se"ri- 
court  ;  you  had  better  go.  If,  on  your  return,  I  have 
made  no  progress,  I'll  give  in.'  '  I  shall  expect  you 
to  breakfast  this  day  week  at  eleven,'  he  replied,  and 
went  away. 

Then  I  went  to  work.  I  called  upon  the  new 
director  who  had  meanwhile  been  appointed  to  the 
Theatre-Frangais,  and  made  a  little  speech  to  him 
somewhat  to  the  following  effect :  *  You  are  no  doubt 
aware  of  Mdlle.  Rachel's  refusal  to  play  our  piece. 
This  refusal  on  her  part  may  be  a  mistake  or  not, 
I  will  not  discuss  it.  But  I  am  certain  of  one  thing, 
that  she  has  undoubtedly  done  us  a  great  wrong.  It 
is  not  fair  to  return  his  play  to  a  man  like  M.  Scribe, 
after  having  asked  him  to  write  it.  One  does  not 
offend  an  author  who  stands  in  the  very  front  rank, 
in  that  manner,  nor,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  a 
younger  man,  who  does  not  altogether  stand  in  the 
last.  Mdlle.  Rachel  must  be  aware  of  all  this,  and  a 
moment's  reflection  on  her  part  will  make  her  feel 
the  justice  of  my  remarks.  A  woman  gifted  as  she 
is,  cannot  possibly  be  completely  devoid  of  the  sense 
of  what  is  fit.  Now  there  is  one  way  of  arranging  the 
thing,  both  in  her  interests  and  in  our  own.  I  am 
not  going  to  ask  her  to  play  our  piece,  but  I  want  her 
to  allow  me  to  read  it  to  her  personally,  and  not  at 
the  theatre,  with  her  comrades  in  attendance,  but  at 
her  own  house,  and  in  the  presence^of  friends  of  her 
own.  She  may  invite  whomsoever  she  pleases,  and 


Si.rty    Years  of  Recollections  177 

as  many  or  as  few  as  she  likes.  I  will  come  alone 
with  the  manuscript  Should  the  play  fail  to  please 
her  and  that  new  committee,  I  will  withdraw  and 
admit  that  I  have  had  a  fair  hearing.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  pleases  her  and  them,  she  will  play  it 
and  score  a  great  success.  She  will  look  upon  me 
for  ever  afterwards  as  her  best  friend.' 

The  director  transmitted  my  offer  which  was  ac- 
cepted, though  on  that  same  evening  Mdlle.  Rachel 
was  reported  to  have  said  to  one  of  her  female  friends : 
4 1  cannot  decline  M.  Legouv£'s  offer,  but  I  shall 
never  play  this  .  .  .  .'  I  refrain  from  writing  down 
the  word,  which,  though  expressive  to  a  degree,  is 
altogether  outside  the  classical  repertory.  An  ap- 
pointment was  made  for  the  next  day  but  one,  the 
jury  selected  by  the  actress  herself  was  composed  of 
Jules  Janin,  Merle,  Rolle,  and  the  director  of  the 
:iv-Francais. 

On  my  arrival  I  no  doubt  felt  somewhat  nervous,  but 

•i  iheless,  thoroughly  self-possessed,  because  I  was 

of  the  justice  of  my  cause,  though  prepared  for 

My  preparations  were  not  formidable. 

Scribe  was  an  admirable  reader,  and  had  rendered 

our   dialogue   in    a    marvellous    manner    before    the 

Committee.     He  fell  short,  however,  in  one  thin;.;.     In 

my  opinion  the  part  of  Adrienne  had  not  been  made 

sufficiently  appropriate  by  the  reader  to  Mdlle.  Rachel. 

1  Ie  had  read  the  part  with  a  great  deal  of  spirit  and 

,  but  he  had  read  it  as  one  reads  the  part  of  a 
VOL,    II  M 


178  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

4  walking  lady.'  His  delivery  had  been  wanting  in 
grandeur,  and  he  had  not  sufficiently  indicated  the 
heroism  smouldering  in  the  woman.  Now  this  was 
precisely  the  point  by  which  one  might  hope  to 
interest  Mdlle.  Rachel,  to  acclimatise  her  to  this 
novel  kind  of  stage-character. 

To  her  the  enterprise  was  obviously  fraught  both 
with  danger  and  difficulties,  and  we  were  bound  to 
lessen  as  much  as  possible  the  former,  and  to  smooth 
away  the  latter.     We  had  to  indicate  to  her  in  read- 
ing the  part  the  best  means  of  transition  from  one 
line  of  characters  to  another,  and  to  convince  her  that 
what  to  the  audience  would  appear  something  akin 
to  a  metamorphosis,   would  in  reality  be   to  her  a 
mere  change  of  costume.     This  appeared  to  me  the 
point  on  which  Scribe  had  not  laid  sufficient  stress, 
and  so  for  two  days  I  took  great  pains  to  accentuate 
it  and  bring  it  into  proper  relief.     I  was  welcomed  in 
a  charming   manner,   full   of  that   'soothing'   grace 
which  was  as  it  were  part  of  herself.     She  herself 
sweetened  the  glass  of  water  I  might  want,  she  herself 
fetched  me  a  chair,  she  herself  drew  back  the  curtains 
to  give  me  a  better  light,  I  could  not  help  remember- 
ing the  famous  phrase :     '  I  shall  never  act  this  .  .  . ' 
and   I   chuckled  inwardly  at  this  lavish   display   of 
amiability,  the  more  so  as  I  knew  the  cause  of  this 
pretty  piece  of  acting.   How,  in  fact,  should  I  be  able  to 
accuse  of  ill-will  and  prejudice  a  listener  so  graciously 
disposed  to  listen.     It  is  what  in  theatrical  parlance 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  1 79 

we  call  a 'led-up-to'  effect.  I  begin  reading.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  first  act,  Mdlle.  Rachel  ap- 
plauded, approved,  smiled,  in  short,  did  the  very 
opposite  of  what  she  had  done  in  the  presence  of  the 
Committee.  Why  all  that  ?  Echo  answered  Why,  but 
I  had  no  difficulty  in  fathoming  her  plan.  She 
had  learned  her  lesson  to  perfection.  Her  excuse 
would  be,  that  the  part  did  not  suit  her  style. 
Seeing  that  Adrienne  does  not  appear  at  all  in 
the  first  act,  Mdlle.  Rachel  was  perfectly  safe  in 
praising  it,  nay,  her  very  praise  would  lend  an 
air  of  impartiality  to  her  subsequent  reserve,  and 
a  semblance  of  sincerity  to  the  expression  of  re- 
gret which  would  accompany  her  refusal.  But  her 
very  cleverness  proved  a  big  blunder,  for  the  moment 
her  friends  perceived  her  satisfaction,  they  joined  in 
it.  They  took  to  applauding  without  stint,  and  the 
reader  encouraged  by  their  applause  grew  more  ani- 
mated. At  the  beginning  of  the  second  act  I  felt 
confident  of  having  my  audience  in  hand.  I  set 
every  stitch  of  canvas,  scudding  before  the  breeze 
icccss,  before  that  kind  of  electrical  current  so 
well  known  to  all  playwrights,  and  which  takes  all  of 
a  sudden  possession  of  the  house,  the  moment  victory 
is  declared.  In  tin-  second  act  Adrienne  makes  her 
appearance,  holding  in  her  hand  the  part  of  Baj.; 
which  si  ;.  The  Prince  de  Bouillon  t.i 

towards  her,  and  says  in  a  captivating 
tone  :  '  What  are  you  in  quest  of  now?  '  to  which  she 


1 80  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

replies  :  '  I  am  in  quest  of  the  truth.'  At  this  re- 
partee Janin  cried, '  Bravo  !'  *  Oh,  oh,'  said  I  to  myself, 
'here  is  at  least  one  friend';  for  after  all  the  repartee- 
did  not  deserve  such  praise.  Mdlle.  Rachel  had  also 
turned  towards  Janin,  as  if  to  say  :  '  Has  he  turned 
traitor  ? '  Luckily  the  traitor's  opinion  was  soon  shared 
by  everyone  present.  Mdlle.  Rachel,  surprised  and 
somewhat  disconcerted  at  her  inability  to  summon 
to  her  aid  the  indifference  that  had  marked  the  first 
reading,  slowly  yielded,  though  still  resisting,  to  the 
generally  favourable  impression.  After  this  second 
act,  warmly  applauded  by  all,  she  said  languidly : 
'  I  have  always  considered  this  act  the  prettiest.' 
This  was  her  last  attempt  at  resistance,  for  at  the 
third  act  she  bravely  threw  her  former  opinion 
overboard,  precisely  as  some  politicians  do  with 
the  opinions  they  held  but  the  day  before.  She 
applauded,  laughed  and  wept  in  turns,  adding  now 
and  then, '  What  an  idiot  I  was.'  And  after  the  fifth 
act,  she  flung  herself  into  my  arms,  embraced  me 
cordially  and  exclaimed  :  *  Why  did  you  not  take  to 
the  stage?' 

The  reader  had  saved  the  author.  Of  course  I 
could  not  but  feel  flattered,  seeing  that  some  time 
previously  after  having  heard  M.  Guizot  speak  in  the 
chamber,  she  had  exclaimed  :  *  How  I  should  like  to 
play  tragedy  with  that  man  ! '  Next  day  at  the  stroke 
of  eleven  I  entered  Scribe's  room.  '  Well,'  he  said 
with  a  mischievous  look, '  what  is  the  state  of  affairs  ? ' 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  1 8 1 

Instead  of  answering,  I  took  from  my  pocket  a 
paper  and  read  aloud  :  '  Com&die-Franc^aise,  this  day 
at  twelve  o'clock,  rehearsal  of  "  Adrienne  Lecouvreur.'" 
'  What ! '  he  shouted.  Thereupon  I  told  him  every- 
thing, and  next  morning,  the  serious  work  of  re- 
hearsing began.  I  learned  a  great  deal  from  it. 
Every  day  at  ten,  I  went  to  Mdlle.  Rachel's  either 
with  Scribe  or  by  myself  if  he  happened  to  be  pre- 
vented by  the  staging  of '  Le  Prophete,'  and  until  half- 
past  eleven  we  went  through  the  act  that  was  to  be 
rehearsed  at  the  theatre.  The  play  was  mounted  in 
eight-and-twenty  days,  not  one  of  which  passed  with- 
out this  double  rehearsal — one  in  the  morning,  the 
other  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  during  that  time  that 
I  conceived  my  admiration  for  Mdlle.  Rachel's 
perseverance,  perspicuity,  faculty  of  assimilation, 
modesty  and  good  fellowship.  Not  an  atom  of  the 
vanity  so  common  to  the  great  artist,  not  the  smallest 
whim  of  the  spoilt  child  of  success  ;  she  was  entirely 
given  up  to  her  art,  and  sacrificed  everything  to  her 
art.  She  listened  to  hints,  discussed  them,  gave  in 
the  moment  she  was  convinced,  but  not  a  moment 
before.  Here  is  a  striking  proof.  Those  who  have 
seen  her  Adrienne  will  recollect  that  one  of  her  most 
telling  effects  of  the  fifth  act  was  the  cry  of  '  Ah  1 
Maurice,'  when  in  the  midst  of  her  delirium  she- 
lf ever  there  was  a  theatrical 
hat  sounded  like  an  inspiration  of  the  moment,  it 
that  one.  Well,  it  took  Rachel  three  days,  not 


1 82  ;     Years  of  Recollections 

exactly  to  discover  the  real  pitch  of  it,  but  to  accept 
it.  Scribe  had  given  her  the  key  ;  she  resisted  Scribe, 
she  resisted  me.  '  It  sounds  false ! '  she  maintained 
obstinately,  '  it  sounds  theatrical.'  '  It  sounds  false 
because  you  spoil  it  in  delivery,'  replied  Scribe,  who 
could  be  very  rough  and  tenacious  on  the  battlefield, 
that  is,  during  rehearsals.  At  last,  after  three  days  of 
miscarried  attempts,  the  cry  entered  her  very  heart, 
and  she  reproduced  it  with  admirable  inaccuracy.  I 
say  inaccuracy,  because  on  her  lips  this  cry  became 
sublime.  That  was  one  of  her  special  gifts,  you 
handed  her  a  penny,  and  she  transmuted  it  into  a  louis. 
Those  rehearsals  have  left  another  recollection 
thoroughly  characteristic  of  her.  A  few  days  before 
the  first  performance  the  theatre  was  closed  for  an 
evening  rehearsal.  Scribe  was  detained  at  the  Opera 
and  did  not  put  in  an  appearance.  The  first  four 
acts  took  us  till  eleven  o'clock,  then  everybody  left 
except  Mdlle.  Rachel,  M.  Regnier,  M.  Maillard  and 
myself.  All  at  once  Mdlle.  Rachel  said  to  me,  *  We 
are  kings  of  all  we  survey,  suppose  we  were  to  try  the 
fifth  act  which  we  have  not  yet  rehearsed.  I  have 
been  studying  it  by  myself  for  the  last  three  days  and 
would  like  to  see  the  effect.'  We  went  on  to  the 
stage,  the  gas  was  turned  off,  consequently  there  were 
no  foot-lights,  there  was  nothing  but  the  traditional 
small  lamp  by  the  side  of  the  prompter's  box  shorn 
of  its  occupant ;  the  audience  consisted  of  the  fireman 
on  duty,  dozing  away  on  a  chair  between  the  wings, 


Years  of  Recollections  183 

and  myself  in  the  stalls.  At  the  first  sound  of  her 
voice,  I  became  deeply  impressed  by  her  delivery ; 
never  had  I  seen  her  so  true  to  nature,  so  simply  yet 
so  powerfully  tragic.  The  light  of  the  smoky  little 
lamp  cast  livid  shadows  on  her  face  and  the  emptiness 
of  the  house  imparted  a  strange  sound  to  her  voice. 
It  was  mournful  to  a  degree.  When  the  act  was 
finished,  we  went  back  to  the  green-room.  As  I 
was  passing  in  front  of  a  looking-glass,  I  was  struck 
by  the  pallor  of  my  face,  and  still  more  so  by  the 
looks  of  M.  Regnier  and  M.  Maillard  who  were 
equally  pale.  As  to  Mdlle.  Rachel,  she  had  seated 
herself  away  from  us,  and  did  not  utter  a  word,  every 
and  then  her  frame  shook,  and  she  was  still 
brushing  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  I  went  up  to  her 
and  in  the  guise  of  praise  pointed  to  the  perturbed 
faces  of  her  fellow  actors.  '  My  dear  Mademoiselle 
Rachel,'  I  said  taking  her  hand, '  you  played  that  fifth 
act  as  you  will  never  play  it  again  ! '  'I  think  so  too/ 
slu-  replied,  '  and  do  you  know  why  ? ' 

'  Yes ;  because  there  was  nobody  there  to  applaud 
you,  because  you  did  not  give  a  moment's  thought  to 
th«  effect,  because  for  the  time  being  you  were  poor 
Adrienne  herself  dying  in  the  middle  of  the  night  in 
the  arms  of  her  two  friends.'  She  remained  silent  for 
a  moment,  then  said, 'You  are  altogether  mistaken. 
A  much  stranger  phenomenon  took  hold  of  my  mind. 
I  did  not  weep  for  AdnVnnr,  I  was  \\vrping  for  myself. 
A  nameless  something  told  me  all  at  once  that  I,  like 


1 84  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

Adrienne,  should  die  young.  I  seemed  to  be  in  my 
own  room  breathing  my  last,  I  was  watching  my  own 
deathbed.  When  I  uttered  the  words :  "  Farewell 
ye  triumphs  of  the  stage :  Farewell !  ye  delights  of 
the  art  I  have  loved  so  well,"  I  was  shedding  real 
tears.  It  was  because  I  was  thinking  with  despair, 
that  time  would  efface  all  traces  of  what  was  my 
talent  once,  and  that  soon  there  would  remain  nothing 
of  her  who  was  once  Rachel ! ' 

II 

The  success  of  '  Adrienne '  had  inspired  Mdlle. 
Rachel  with  great  confidence  in  me.  She  said  openly 
that  I  had  given  her  talent  a  new  lease  of  life,  by 
making  her  strike  out  a  new  line  against  her  own  in- 
clination. Our  rehearsals  had  shown  her  that  I  was  as 
capable  of  teaching  her  how  to  play  a  woman's  part  as 
of  writing  one,  and  she  asked  me  to  help  her  in  taking 
yet  another  forward  step.  In  Adrienne  she  had  de- 
serted poetry  for  prose,  the  antique  for  the  modern, 
the  peplos  and  the  chlamys  for  the  brocaded  gown  ; 
she  now  wanted  to  play  an  absolutely  modern  part 
in  a  walking  dress.  She  no  longer  wanted  to  be  a 
heroine  but  a  woman  in  society,  in  other  words  : 
'  Mdlle.  Rachel.'  I  proposed  'Louise  de  Lignerolles'  to 
her.  She  had  seen  Mdlle.  Mars  in  the  part,  and  been 
deeply  impressed  ;  but  the  thought  of  challenging 
comparison  tempted  her  rather  than  frightened  her. 
'  Read  your  piece  to  me,'  she  said, '  and  we'll  see.' 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  185 

I  did  read  it  to  her,  she  played  the  part,  and  scored 
a  triple  success  ;  a  success  due  to  her  talent,  a  success 
due  to  her  beauty,  and  last,  a  success  due  to  the 
elegance  of  her  dresses.  The  last  was  all  the  more 
pleasing  to  her,  seeing  the  treasury  paid  for  it — 
heaven  alone  knows,  with  what  an  outcry.  Four 
dresses  costing  1 500  francs  the  four — the  theatre  was 
positively  being  ruined.  Nowadays  they  would  cost 
6000  francs  and  be  paid  for  without  a  murmur,  which 
would  be  the  right  thing.  This  second  success  still 
further  strengthened  the  bonds  between  Mdlle.  Rachel 
and  myself.  I  was  almost  looked  upon  as  a  friend. 
She  did  me  the  honour  to  ask  my  advice  about  some 
of  her  other  parts.  One  evening  she  read  to  me 
Emile  Augier's  drama  '  Diana '  which  she  was  then 
rehearsing  and  this  reading  of  the  play  confirmed  an 
opinion  I  had  long  held,  namely,  that  there  is  a  vast 
difference  between  reading  and  acting.  An  excellent 
reader  might  make  but  an  indifferent  comedian,  and 
an  excellent  actor  but  an  indifferent  reader,  the  two 
arts  differing  almost  entirely  from  one  another.  The 
actor  represents  only  one  character  in  a  play,  whereas 
the  reader  has  to  represent  them  all.  The  one  has 
only  the  instrument  of  his  voice  to  aid  him,  the  other 
is  assisted  by  his  dress,  h  his  bearing,  and 

hi\  facial  play,  so  much  so  that  Mdlle.  Rachel   who 
played  the  touching  par:  me'  with  remarkable 

at,  read  tin-  In  an  altogether  ordinary 

way.       Slu     afforded     me,    furthermore,    tin 


1 86  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

pleasure  of  enacting  before  me  and  for  me  alone, 
with  her  sister  Mdlle.  Sarah  Felix,  the  scene  between 
Celimene  and  Arsince. 

It  was  a  clever,  incisive,  effective  reading,  but 
wanting  in  youthful  sparkle  and  gaiety.  Youth 
and  loveliness  are  indispensable  to  save  the  part 
of  Celimene  from  becoming  odious.  When  they  had 
finished  the  scene,  I  laughed  and  told  her  that  it 
was  very  nice,  but  that  her  Celimene  was  a  woman 
of  forty.  Finally,  one  day,  after  a  long  discussion 
on  women's  parts  on  the  stage,  she  asked  me  to 
write  one  expressly  for  her.  '  If  you  will  do  this  for 
me/  she  added,  smiling,  '  I  will  write  you  a  letter 
without  a  single  mistake  in  the  spelling.'  In  order  to 
carry  out  this  third  attempt,  I  conceived  the  idea  of 
a  ,tragedy  which  should  be  both  ancient  and  modern. 
Let  me  explain.  During  the  last  forty  years,  an- 
tiquity has,  as  it  were,  become  a  new  world  to  us. 
Numberless  critical,  archaeological,  historical,  numis- 
matical  and  artistic  studies  have  all  of  a  sudden 
thrown  a  new  light  on  the  habits,  beliefs,  monuments, 
and  labours  of  antiquity.  The  Greek  drama  has,  as 
it  were,  been  recalled  to  life  by  the  researches  of 
German  scholars,  and  by  the  learned  and  ingenious 
work  of  M.  Patin  on  the  three  great  tragic  writers. 
Fortified  by  these  new  revelations,  I  took  up  a  sub- 
ject which  had  always  attracted  me  by  reason  of 
its  very  mysteriousness,  namely,  Medea.  I  felt 
that  the  Greek  poet  had  not  said  the  last  word  on 


r    Years  of  Recollections  187 

the  subject.  I  saw  that  this  mother's  heart  would 
bear  still  further  probing,  and  that  one  might  draw 
still  more  powerful  effects  from  even  the  most  beauti- 
ful scenes.  One  scene  tempted  me  more  than  the  rest ; 
I  mean  the  description  of  Creusa's  death.  Medea, 
in  token  of  submission,  sends  her  sons  to  Creusa, 
with  presents  of  rare  beauty,  namely,  a  crown  of  gold 
and  a  peplos  of  the  finest  workmanship.  Euripides 
tells  us  in  delightful  verse  the  unfeigned  joy  of  the 
young  girl  at  the  sight  of  those  presents.  '  She 
placed  this  crown  on  her  head,  she  draped  the  peplos 
in  tasteful  folds  on  her  bosom/  he  says,  *  she  dressed 
her  hair  before  a  bright  mirror,  smiling  at  her  own 
reflection,  then  having  risen  from  her  throne  she 
walked  up  and  down  her  chamber  with  graceful  steps, 
her  feet  encased  in  white  sandals,  and  craning  her 
neck  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  back  of  her  figure.' 

Suddenly,  however,  she  changes  colour,  trembles 
violently  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  poet  in  his  ad- 
mirable narrative  proceeds  to  show  her  to  us  in  the 
act  of  tearing  away  the  crown  which  sets  her  head 
on  fire,  and  shrieking  with  agony  as  she  falls  swoon- 
ing into  the  arms  of  her  old  slave. 

What  a  ma  t  scene  this  would  make,  I  said 

vsclf,  if  instead  of  being  read,  it  were  enacted;  if, 
instead  of  sending  them  by  her  children,  Medea  herself 
were  to  take  the  ;  ,  if,  instead  of  an  aged  slave, 

Medea  herself  were  to  help  Creusa  apparel  1  in-  her- 
self  Medea  on  h< T  knees,  bowed  down  and 


1 88  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

assuming  the  part  of  a  servant,  Medea  watching  her 
rival's  every  expression  of  artless  delight,  then  all  of 
a  sudden  bounding  towards  Creusa,  already  writhing 
with  excruciating  pain,  and  replying  to  her  with 
savage  glee :  '  What  does  this  mean  ?  It  means 
that  you  must  die  ! ' 

What  a  splendid  situation  !  What  a  contrast  to 
depict  for  an  actress  like  Mdlle.  Rachel.  With  my 
mind  full  of  the  idea,  I  set  to  work  immediately,  and 
wrote  the  scene  in  two  days.  When  it  was  finished, 
the  remaining  incidents  of  the  drama  as  it  had  pre- 
sented itself  to  my  mind,  gradually  grouped  them- 
selves around  the  scene,  and  after  a  twelvemonth's 
work,  I  took  my  play  to  Mdlle.  Rachel.  Her  first 
glance  at  it  boded  me  no  good,  she  frowned  at  the 
very  title,  but  this  did  not  dishearten  me  knowing 
her  as  I  did,  and  remembering  her  refusal  to  play 
Adrienne.  Consequently,  when  I  had  finished  read- 
ing, I  said  in  an  off-hand  tone  :  '  Well  ?  '  '  Well,'  she 
replied,  '  I  expected  something  more  original,  you 
must  remember  I  have  already  played  so  many  Greek 
parts.'  '  But  Medea  is  not  a  Greek  in  my  drama,  she 
is  a  Barbarian.'  '  Another  thing,  I  have  never  played 
the  part  of  a  mother.' 

'  All  the  more  reason  why  you  should  begin  to  do 
so.  '  How  do  I  know  that  I  shall  be  able  to  express 
the  feelings  of  a  mother  on  the  stage  ?  '  '  Your  own 
motherly  love !  Why  should  you  not  be  able  to  ex- 
press that  which  you  so  intensely  feel  ? '  '  In  the  second 


y    Years  of  Recollections  189 

and  third  acts  I  have  come  upon  sudden  transitions 
from  fury  to  sobbing,  I  don't  know  how  to  do  that 
kind  of  thing.'  '  I  do/  I  laughed,  'and  I'll  teach  you.' 
That  was  the  way  in  which  I  managed  to  imbue  her 
gradually  with  the  idea  of  the  character  I  had  tried 
to  sketch,  that  is,  without  deliberately  contradicting 
her,  by  the  alternate  use  of  argument  and  persuasion, 
by  constantly  keeping  in  view  both  the  receptive  and 
non-receptive,  the  docile  and  refractory  qualities  of 
that  rare  intelligence,  until,  at  last,  she  threw  herself 
into  the  study  of  *  Medee '  with  the  same  passion  she 
had  shown  in  the  cases  of  Adrienne  and  Louise. 

I  shall  never  forget  one  of  those  days  of  study.  I 
was  expected  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  at  the 
small  villa  she  then  rented  at  Auteuil.  On  my 
arrival  I  found  her  in  the  garden,  gathering  flowers, 
tying  them  into  bouquets  ;  she  was  in  a  merry  mood, 
laughing,  as  happy  as  a  child,  the  very  fact  of  living 
filled  her  with  joy.  '  I  am  pleased  to  see  you,'  she 

'  we'll  set  to  work  with  a  will.  I  feel  particularly 
well  to-day.  What  a  blessing  it  is  to  feel  well.  I  have 
done  with  all  the  follies  of  youth,  they  are  too  dear  at 
the  price,  and  after  all  there  is  nothing  compared  to 
the  joy  of  breathing  the  fivsh  air,  gladly,  and  without 

lint.  I  feel  sure  we  shall  get  on  capitally  to- 
day.' I  asked  lu-r  if  she  would  like  to  trythcgre.it 
scene  between  Medea  and  Crenel,  the  terrible  scene 

.ill tided  to. 
'  If  you  lik  cl, 'we  had  better  begin  at 


190  Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections 

once.'  However,  after  a  few  minutes  of  work  and 
preliminary  essay,  during  which  she  seemed  uncertain 
of  her  powers  and  doubtful  of  her  effects,  she  suddenly 
stopped. 

'  My  dear  friend,  do  you  know  what  we  must  do/ 
she  said,  c  we  must  cut  out  that  scene.' 

'  Are  you  joking  ?  '  I  replied,  '  what,  cut  out  the 
most  powerful,  the  most  novel,  and  the  most  effec- 
tive scene  in  the  whole  of  the  three  acts  as  far  as  you 
are  concerned  ?  '  *  Never  mind  me  and  my  effects  ; 
let  us  look  to  the  part  and  above  all,  to  the  play.  It's 
my  opinion  that  this  scene  kills  the  piece,  because  it 
kills  the  interest  in  it.' 

4  You  cannot  surely  mean  what  you  say,'  I  replied, 
'  the  interest  positively  converges  towards  this.'  *  Yes,' 
an  interest  of  horror  and  sickening  terror,  but  that  is 
not  what  we  want  in  the  third  act.  Just  reflect  for  a 
moment  that  I  have  to  slay  my  children,  and  remain 
sympathetic  all  the  while.  I  repeat  "  sympathetic," 
whilst  killing  them.  How  can  I  command  sympa- 
thy five  minutes  after  committing  an  atrocious  deed, 
after  murdering  in  cold  blood,  treacherously  and 
foully  ?  The  murder  of  Creusa  on  the  stage,  makes 
the  murder  of  the  children  impossible  ;  the  one  drags 
down  the  other,  and  I  become  simply  a  wholesale 
murderess.  I  feel  the  loss  of  that  scene  as  well  as 
you  do ;  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  what  I  could  make 
of  it,  but — afterwards,  I  would  fail  to  believe  in  the 
reality  of  my  tears.' 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  191 

For  a  moment  I  looked  at  her  without  replying  ;  I 
confess  I  was  amazed  at  seeing  a  woman  of  no 
education  formulate  instinctively  and  by  sheer  force 
of  intellect,  a  most  profound  piece  of  criticism. 
Then  I  took  her  hand,  and  said  :  *  You  are  quite 
right,  I  will  cut  out  that  scene/ 

'  You  are  really  delightful,'  she  exclaimed,  throwing 
her  arms  round  my  neck. 

1  You  will  own,  however,'  I  said  laughing,  *  that  it  is 
vastly  amusing  to  see  me  cut  the  very  scene  round 
which  my  piece  was  written.' 

\  -thing  is  more  conducive  to  mutual  confidence 
and  suggestion,  than  such  genuine  and  heartfelt  colla- 
boration between  two  individuals.  The  communion  of 
mind  leads  to  the  communion  of  hearts,  and  as  a 
consequence  the  discussion  that  day  gradually  drifted 
from  the  tragedy  to  the  tragedienne  herself,  from 
Medea  to  Mdlle.  Rachel.  Without  the  least  premedi- 
tation she  began  to  talk  of  her  debuts,  of  the  hopes 
she  cherished  when  she  was  young,  of  her  own  life, 
until  at  last  she  confided  to  me  a  fact  so  curious  and 
so  much  redounding  to  her  honour,  that  I  cannot  re- 
thc  pleasure  of  telling  it  We  had  been  chatting 
about  Polyeucte  and  Pauline.  '  Ah,'  she  exclaimed, 
'Pauline's  is  the  part  I  probably  liked  best,  nay, 

Chipped  most  in  my   life.'     She  laid  great  Sf 
on  the  word  worshipped. 

'The  character  has  produced  a  strange  sensation  in 
me,  whi  people  would  credit  You 


192  Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections 

ask  me  what  it  was  ?  I  will  tell  you.  You  remember 
that  after  having  created  it  with  great  success,  I 
suddenly  relinquished  it  ? '  '  I  even  remember  the 
curious  explanation  given  at  the  time,'  I  replied. 
'  I  know  what  you  refer  to/  she  said  laughing. 

*  They   wanted  to    make   out  that  I  was  jealous   of 
Beauvallet   as    Polyeucte.      I,  jealous   of  Beauvallet, 
a   very    likely   thing   indeed.     The   truth   is,   that    I 
ceased  to  play  Pauline  for  a  while,  out  of  respect  for 
the   character.     You   do   not   know   what  a  strange 
creature  I  am.     A  fatal  accident  in  my  life  brought 
me   in    contact  with   a   man  of  low  sentiments  and 
ideas,  but   of  powerful  intellect,  by  which   he   soon 
gained  such  mastery  over  me,  that  while  cursing  it 
I    submitted    to    it.'      '  But   why   did    you    submit  ? ' 

*  Why  indeed  ?     You  men  of  intellect  fancy  you  are 
lynx-eyed,  and  all  the  while  you  are  simply  so  many 
moles  when  it  comes  to  reading  our  hearts,  the  hearts 
of  actresses  who  happen  to  be  women  at  the  same 
time.     You  simply  see  nothing  at  all  ;  true,  we  our- 
selves often  see  no  more  than  that.     Why  did  I  sub- 
mit to  a  man  I  hated  and  despised  ?     Because  he  had 
a  hold  on   me,  because  he  had  got  hold  of  a  secret 
which  he  used  as  a  weapon  against  me,  because  he 
had  persuaded  me  that  he  could  further  my  theatri- 
cal career.     To  be  frank  with  you,  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  I  did  not  look  upon  his  perverse  power  over  me 
as  a  proof  of  force.     And  yet,  so  intensely  did  I  loathe 
him,  that  one  night  in  the  first  act  of  "  Maria  Stuart " 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  1 93 

I  actually  put  a  small  pistol  in  my  pocket,  with  the 
firm  intention  of  shooting  him  in  the  stage-box  in 
which  he  always  showed  himself  conspicuously  when- 
ever I  played.  What  a  sensation  it  would  have 
caused  ! '  Of  course  I  smiled  when  I  heard  her  utter 
this  bit  of  theatrical  bombast,  and  she  went  on  :  '  I 
understand,  you  think  I  am  only  acting  a  bit  of 
comedy  before  you.  Never  mind,'  she  added  with 
strange  persistence,  '  I  wanted  you  to  know  this  story 
and  I  want  you  to  believe  it,  for  it  is  the  plain  unvar- 
nished truth.  I  gave  up  the  part  of  Pauline  so  sud- 
denly, because  I  felt  unworthy  of  playing  it,  because 
there  came  a  time  when  I  hated  myself  so  much  that 
I  felt  I  could  no  longer  act  so  noble  a  character  and 
utter  the  lofty  sentiments  placed  on  her  lips.  Those 
admirable  lines  burnt  my  tongue  like  fire,  and  I 
could  speak  them  no  longer,  I  really  could  not ! ' 

She  spoke  with  such  apparent  truth,  that  her  words 
made  a  profound  impression  upon  me  and  I  became 
serious.  Then  she  went  on  in  an  attitude  and  voice 
til  never  forget:  'That  all  this  sounds  very  im- 
probable, I  know  full  well  ;  but  what  would  you  say 
if  I  laid  bare  my  uh<»U  lu  art  to  you?  You  have  a 
great  :i<>n  for  me,  I  believe?  You  all  go  into 

ecsta  n  you  hear  me  declaim  some  great  j> 

Well,  let  me  tell  you,  there  was  once  a  Rachel  within 
me   ten  times  greater   than    the   one  you  know.     I 

that  mi;.;ht  1 
been    mine.      I   li  roof  of  some  talent,  no 


1 94  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

doubt,  but  I  might  have  been  a  genius.  Ah !  would 
that  I  had  been  differently  brought  up,  that  my  sur- 
roundings had  been  different.  If  I  had  led  a  different 
life,  what  an  artist  I  should  have  been.  When  I  think 
of  all  this,  I  am  torn  by  such  regrets  .  .  .  .'  Here 
she  came  to  a  sudden  stop  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  for  a  minute  or  two,  until  I  saw  tears  trick- 
ling through  her  fingers.  I  was  very  much  astonished 
and  asked  myself  how  much  truth  there  was  in  what 
I  saw?  Were  these  genuine  tears,  or  had  she  the 
gift  of  producing  them  at  will  ?  Was  it  her  intention 
to  deceive  me,  or  did  she  deceive  herself?  Imagina- 
tion is  so  important  a  factor  in  shaping  the  actions  of 
those  high-strung  creatures,  that  one  never  knows 
where  the  truth  begins,  and  where  it  ends.  What 
was  the  cause  of  her  being  so  deeply  moved  ?  Was 
it  regret  at  a  non-realised  artistic  ideal,  or  was  she 
merely  creating  a  part  as  she  went  on  ?  Did  she 
want  to  impose  upon  me  ? 

Mme.  Talma  has  left  it  on  record  that  her 
emotion  in  '  Iphigenie '  was  caused  not  by  the  lines  of 
Racine  but  by  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  in  deliver- 
ing them.  Was  Mdlle.  Rachel's  a  similar  instance? 
Did  she  feel  moved  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  ? 
Had  she  a  particular  reason  for  selecting  me  as  the 
depositary  of  her  confessions,  I  who  could  hardly  be 
termed  a  friend  ?  I  was  lost  in  speculation  and  ex- 
pected every  moment  to  see  her  remove  her  hands 
from  her  face,  laugh  in  mine  at  the  sight  of  my 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  195 

emotion  and  hear  her  say.  'That  was  well  done,  I 
see  I  have  played  my  part  well — '  Nothing  of  the 
kind  happened.  She  dried  her  tears  and  said 
quietly,  '  Now  you  know  me  better  than  many  others 
who  fancy  they  know  me  intimately.' 

I  went  away  deeply  moved,  astonished  and  de- 
lighted. This  conversation  seemed  a  happy  augury 
to  myself.  Changeable  as  I  knew  her  to  be,  I  could 
hardly  imagine  that  she  would  not  keep  faith  with  a 
man  to  whom  she  had  confided  so  much.  The  noble 
character  she  had  assumed  before  me  for  a  moment 
would  bind  her  more  or  less,  if  only  for  the  pleasure 
it  would  afford  her  to  appear  in  such  a  light.  In 
short,  I  felt  very  hopeful.  Three  days  later,  however, 
I  heard  that  Mdlle.  Rachel  was  about  to  start  for 
Russia,  and  thus  put  an  end  to  the  rehearsals  of 
'  Medee.' 

It   was   a   severe   shock ;  a  peculiar  circumstance 

made  the  case  more  aggravating.     There  happened 

to   be   a   vacant   chair  at   the  Academy  and  I  had 

counted   on  this  very  '  M£d6e '  as   one   of  my  best 

claii  The    departure    of    Mdlle.    Rachel,    then, 

dashed  all  my  hopes  to  the  ground  ;  still  I  was  not 

She   wrote  to   me  that   her  journey 

would  simply  delay  the  production  of  our  piece  for 

months,  and   I   pretended  to  believe  her.     We 

often    confuse  faithless  folk   by  pretending  t<>   p] 

faith    in    them.       It,    as    it    v  rCCfl    their    hand. 

hese  three  months  of  waiting,  I  cndcavoi; 


196  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

to  discover  in  that  strange  character  itself  the  reason 
of  that  hope  against  hope,  which  might  still  remain  in 
me.  During  those  three  months,  I  made  some  pro- 
found psychological  studies  indeed.  I  fancy  the 
reader  will  feel  some  interest  in  this  little  voyage  of 
discovery. 

Ill 

Mdlle.  Rachel  had  no  doubt  an  excellent  heart. 
No  more  affectionate  daughter,  no  more  loving  sister, 
no  more  devoted  mother  than  she.  Dependents, 
inferiors,  servants,  the  'small  fry'  of  the  theatre, 
simply  worshipped  her.  While  in  London,  I  saw  her 
burst  into  tears  on  hearing  of  the  death  of  a  young 
Neapolitan  Prince  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  and  she 
sobbed  so  violently,  that  her  brother  who  was  at  the 
same  time  her  manager,  was  afraid  it  might  impair 
her  voice  for  that  night,  and  with  the  practical 
philosophy  of  the  manager  told  her  '  that  we  are  all 
mortal.'  But  I  also  remember  having  caught  her  one 
day  in  her  dressing-room  dancing  a  sort  of  cancan  in 
the  costume  of  Virginia.  '  Oh,  Mademoiselle  Rachel,' 
I  exclaimed,  '  and  in  that  dress  too,  it  really  is  too 
horrible.'  '  That  is  just  why  it  is  charming,  you 
great  ninny,'  she  retorted,  laughing.  '  After  all,  my 
dear  fellow,  in  my  inmost  heart  I  am  a  little  mounte- 
bank.' This  was  true  and  not  true ;  she  was  a  little 
mountebank  and  at  the  same  time  she  was  a  Virginia. 
A  tragic  actress  in  virtue  of  her  voice,  intelligence 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  197 

and  gait,  she  was  before  everything  an  actress  at  heart 
and  in  her  inmost  soul.  One  day,  after  an  aristo- 
cratic reception  where  she  had  assumed  all  the  airs  of 
a  great  lady,  she  felt  the  need  of  having  her  '  fling,' 
and  there  and  then  before  some  friends  indulged  in 
antics  and  gestures  worthy  of  the  veriest  guttersnipe. 
That  was  the  strange,  characteristic  mark  of  this 
multiple  being.  The  incongruous  was  the  acme  of 
her  delight.  Blended  with  everything  else,  and  ever 
floating  to  the  top,  there  was  the  temperament  of 
the  jeering,  flouting  street-arab,  speaking  all  kinds 
of  languages  and  changing  her  vocabulary  according 
to  her  interlocutor,  delighting  most  in  getting  the 
laugh  of  folk,  and  catching  them  unaware. 

Poor  M.  Viennet  had  a  specimen  of  this  to  his  cost. 
M.  Viennet  was  a  man  of  parts  and  talent ;  he  was 
loyal  to  a  fault,  brusque  to  a  degree  that  might 
be  mistaken  for  good-nature,  all  his  defects  ag- 
gravated, by  an  amount  of  self-esteem,  which  was 
no  doubt  justified  by  his  merits  ;  unfortunately  his 
conceit  and  his  merits  pulled  different  ways.  He 
a  very  successful,  satirical  poet,  and  considered 
himself  a  tragic  writer  of  genius.  One  day,  then, 
he  made  his  appearance  in  Mdlle.  Rachel's  dressing- 
room. 

4  You   probably  do   not   know   me,  mademoiselle. 
I  ,nn  Yirnnet' 

'Oh,  monsieur,  'lied  in  her  most  wheedling 

voice,  'who  does  not  know  ....  Vicnn 


198  5/lr/x   Years  of  Recollections 

*  I  have  been  told  that  you  would  like  to  create  a 
new  part.' 

'  I  am  dying  to  do  so.' 

'  I  have  brought  you  a  most  admirable  part.' 

4  There  is  no  need  to  add  the  superlative.' 

*  I  want  no  compliments,  and  have  no  wish  to  sell 
you  a  pig  in  a  poke.     I  do  not  ask  you  to  enact  my 
tragedy,  but  simply  to  let  me  read  it  to  you.     True, 
I   am    perfectly  certain   that  when  you   have  heard 
it  .  .  .  .' 

'  And  I  feel  equally  sure.' 

*  Then  you  are  agreeable  to  my  reading  it  ? ' 

'Am  I  agreeable,  M.  Viennet?  I  am  only  too 
pleased.  Nay,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so,  too 
proud  that  you  should  have  selected  so  humble  an 
artist  as  myself  to  be  your  interpreter.' 

'  Very  well ;  when  shall  it  be  then  ?     To-morrow  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  say  to-morrow.' 

'  At  two  o'clock  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  at  two  o'clock.' 

Thereupon  Viennet  departs  triumphant,  but  trium- 
phant without  surprise,  calm,  as  becomes  a  man  who 
has  simply  received  the  homage  due  to  him. 

'  She  is  really  very  nice  and  charming  this  young 
tragedienne,'  he  says  to  everyone  he  meets.  '  A  good 
deal  of  brain,  taste,  and  tact.  She  is  absolutely  bent 
on  playing  my  Roxane.' 

Next  day  he  calls  at  the  appointed  hour. 

*  Madame  is  not  at  home.' 


Si.i'fy   Years  of  Recollections  199 

He  calls  again  the  next  day. 

'  Madame  is  not  well.' 

On  the  third  day  he  rings  the  bell  in  a  perfect 
rage.  Her  man-servant  opens  the  door. 

'  Mademoiselle  Rachel  ?  ' 

4  Will  you  please  step  in  ! ' 

At  last;  thinks  poor  Viennet,  as  he  is  being  shown 
into  a  small  drawing-room,  where  an  elegant  young 
man  with  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  in  his 
buttonhole,  is  already  waiting. 

*  Will  monsieur  give  me  his  card,'  says  the  man. 

'  My  name  is  sufficient — Viennet.' 

'  I  will  go  and  see  if  Madame  is  at  home,'  with  which 
the  man  opens  the  door  of  a  second  room,  and  our  poor 
poet  overhears  Mdlle.  Rachel  saying  to  the  servant  : 

'  M.  Viennet !     Tell  him  that  I  am  sick  of  him.' 

The  reader  may  fancy  the  fury  of  our  poor  poet, 
especially  when  the  young  fellow  smiles.  'You  would 
not  think  it  a  laughing  matter,  monsieur,'  says 
Viennet,  *  if  like  myself  you  had  come  for  the  third 

'Oh,  M.  Viennet,'  interrupts  the  young  fellow,  still 
smiling,  'that's  a  mere  nothing  compared  to  what  she 
would  do  to  you  if  you  were  her  lo\  < 

The  recollection  of  this  incident  was  not  calculate-'] 
to  reassure  me.  Hut  here  is  another  story  which 
me  still  greatet  anxiety. 

In  her  >uiu;  days  Mdllc.  Rachel  had  what 

mi-ht  IK-  called  her  p  1C  period.  I  am  alluding 


2OO  T    Years  of  Recollections 

to  the  time  when  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  had  taken 
her  under  its  wings  as  the  high  Priestess  of  art.  She 
was  asked  to  1'Abbaye-aux-Bois,  to  meet  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris,  so  that  he  might  hear  her  recite. 
Her  spotless  fame  was  like  a  sacred  fire,  around  which 
some  of  the  greatest  ladies  of  France  kept  watch. 
One  of  these,  by  no  means  the  least  illustrious  or  the 
least  clever,  wishing  to  show  her  respect  for  the  great 
artist  before  the  world  at  large,  took  her  in  an  open 
carriage  in  broad  daylight  for  a  drive  to  the  Champs- 
Elyse"es,  her  own  daughter  sitting  with  her  back  to 
the  horses.  On  their  return  from  this  drive,  Mdlle. 
Rachel  flung  herself  at  the  Duchess'  feet,  exclaiming 
in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion  and  tears  :  '  Oh  Madame, 
such  a  proof  of  esteem  from  you  is  more  precious  to 
me  than  all  my  talent.'  The  emotion  of  the  actress 
was  fully  shared  by  the  Duchess  and  her  daughter, 
who  both  asked  Rachel  to  rise,  and  embraced  her. 
Shortly  afterwards,  Mdlle.  Rachel  takes  leave.  The 
grand  drawing-room  led  into  two  smaller  ones. 
Mdlle.  Rachel  crossed  these  latter  two  without  having 
noticed  that  the  Duchess'  daughter  had  accompanied 
her  as  a  mark  of  respect  and  sympathy.  When  she 
gets  to  the  last  door,  Mdlle.  Rachel  opens  it,  turns 
round,  and  fancying  herself  quite  alone,  simply  puts 
her  finger  to  her  nose  and  inflates  her  cheeks  like 
Gavroche  when  he  wishes  to  express  his  contempt  for 
men  and  things  in  general. 

Unfortunately  this  last  door  had  panels  of  looking- 


Si.vfy   Years  of  Recollections  201 

glass  which  reflected  the  actress'  movement,  into  the 
second  drawing-room,  where  the  Duchess'  daughter 
was  still  lingering.  She  catches  sight  of  Rachel  and 
her  expressive  pantomime,  rushes  back  to  her  mother 
and,  choking  with  indignation,  tells  her  what  she  has 
seen.  She  herself  told  me  the  story  some  time  after- 
wards, and  while  telling  it  could  scarcely  suppress 
her  emotion.  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  she  took  the 
matter  much  too  seriously,  that  Mdlle.  Rachel  was 
really  not  so  ungrateful  as  she  appeared,  that  she  was 
neither  indifferent  to  the  Duchess'  good  opinion,  nor 
failed  to  appreciate  her  kindness  to  herself.  The 
matter  was  simply  this,  when  she  reached  the  door, 
the  small  mischievous  imp  that  lives  in  her  brain, 
popped  out  of  its  box  and  began  to  jeer  at  her  real 
feeling. 

My  philosophical  leniency  may  have  merely  sprung 
from  the  wish  to  keep  up  my  own  courage,  but 
later  on  this  foresaid  little  imp,  when  I  began  to 
think  of  him,  caused  me  much  uneasiness,  -and  my 
forebodings  proved  correct. 

On  her  return  from  Russia,  Mdlle.  Rachel  told  me 
plainly  that  she  had  no  intention  of  ever  playing 
1  Medee.'  I  was  furious  and  commenced  an  action 
against  her  which  I  won.  She  appealed  and  lost 
again.  She  was  cast  in  six  thousand  francs  damages 
which  I  divided  between  the  Society  of  Drair. 
Authors  Society  of  Authors.  I  then  published 

my   piece,  and   the   rapid  sale  of  several   edition 


2O2  ty    Years  of  Recollections 

abled  my  friends  at  the  Academy  to  construe  this 
into  a  valid  claim  to  the  vacant  chair.  I  had  my  re- 
venge, but  it  was  after  all  an  unsatisfactory  one,  see- 
ing that  the  foremost  condition  of  the  success  of  a 
play  is  its  representation  on  the  stage.  I  still  craved 
for  further  reparation,  when  the  luckiest  chance  of 
my  whole  life,  perhaps,  brought  me  in  contact  with 
a  tragic  actress  of  genius,  to  wit,  Adelaide  Ristori. 

'  Mede"e '  transformed  into  '  Medea'  became  for  that 
grand  interpreter  the  means  of  a  veritable  triumph,  in 
which  I  had  my  share.  My  tragedy,  taken  by  her  to 
every  capital  in  Europe,  and  even  to  America,  trans- 
lated successively  into  Italian,  English,  German  and 
Dutch,  was  enacted  everywhere  except  on  the  stage 
for  which  it  had  been  written. 

But  the  most  surprising  result  of  my  success,  was 
my  reconciliation  with  Mdlle.  Rachel.  With  one  of 
her  characteristic,  generous  impulses,  she  was  the  first 
to  applaud  my  success,  instead  of  being  vexed  at  it. 
She  was  thankful  to  me  for  having  taken  up  my  own 
cudgels  and  avenged  myself  in  that  manner,  even 
upon  her.  My  step  invested  me  with  a  certain 
grandeur  in  her  eyes,  and  she  was  the  first  to  hold 
out  the  hand  of  friendship  under  circumstances  I  shall 
never  forget.  She  was  at  Cannet  and  dying.  Pure 
chance  brought  me  thither,  and  I  immediately  went 
to  see  her.  I  was  told  that  her  days  were  spent  in 
those  alternate  periods  of  illusion  and  sombre  clair- 
voyance which  are  the  invariable  symptoms  of  organic 


Years  of  Recollections  203 

diseases.  '  For  six  hours  a  day  I  am  full  of  hope, 
during  the  rest  I  am  plunged  in  despair/  she  kept 
on  saying.  Her  terrible  sufferings  now  and  then 
became  plastically  manifest  in  attitudes  replete  with 
statuesque  and  noble  grace,  attitudes  of  which  she 
was  perfectly  conscious,  for  your  great  dramatic 
artist  never  forgets  his  ego  even  amidst  the  most 
cruel  bodily  and  mental  suffering.  He  is  actor  and 
spectator  in  one.*  However  real  his  despair,  he 
watches  the  rendering  of  it.  Mdlle.  Rachel  felt  that 
her  poses  as  a  young  invalid  were  elegant  to  a 
degree ;  she  looked  upon  herself  as  a  beautiful 
statue  personifying  '  Grief.' 

As  she  was  too  ill  to  see  me  when  I  called,  she 
sent  word  that  she  was  deeply  affected  by  my  visit, 
and  would  I  call  again.  When  I  did  return,  her 
sister  handed  me  a  letter  dictated  by  her.  It  was 
full  of  affectionate  expressions  of  regard  as  well  as  of 
regret  for  the  past,  and  ended  with  the  following 
passage  which  affected  me  doubly  :  both  by  its  proof 
of  her  confidence  in  me,  and  by  the  gleam  of  hope  it 
expressed. 

1  A   hicntdt,  we  shall  meet  again  either  here  or  in 
You    are    the  author   who    most    truthfully 
rays    woman's     nature.      Promise    me    that    you 
will  write  me  a  part  for  my  re-appearam 


*  Two  or  three  hours  before  his  death,  Quin  suddenly  awoke  to 
consciousness.  '  I  should  like  to  be  conscious  to  the  very  last,  to  see 
whether  I  look  the  correct  reading  of  my  character,'  he  said. 


2O4  .S/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

Three  days  later,  she  was  dead.  Something  of  her 
remained  behind. 

The  reader  will  remember  her  heartrending  sobs 
at  the  rehearsal  of  '  Adrienne,'  her  fear  of  dying 
young,  and  that  sad  phrase :  '  Soon  there  will  be 
nothing  left  of  what  was  once  Rachel.' 

She  was  mistaken,  however,  something  does  re- 
main of  her,  the  halo  round  her  name  ! 

We  link  it  almost  naturally  with  that  of  another 
young  and  sublime  artist,  taken  away  like  Rachel,  in 
the  prime  of  life.  We  speak  in  the  same  breath  of 
Rachel  and  of  Malibran. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  Portrait-Gallery. — Samuel  Hahnemann,  the  Inventor  of  Homoepathy. 
— How  I  became  acquainted  with  him. — Hahnemann  and  his  Wife 
at  my  little  Daughter's  Bedside. — A  physical  Portrait. — His  Direc- 
tions.—' Throw  Physic  to  the  Dogs.'— He  predicts  the  Crisis  to  a 
Minute. — He  saves  my  Daughter's  Life. — The  Paris  Faculty  of 
Medicine  disgusted. — A  Doctor  a  la  Moliere. — It  would  have  been 
better  that  this  little  girl  should  have  died. — The  Origin  of  Hahne- 
mann's  System. — His  Language. — His  religious  Belief. — The  Sen- 
tence under  my  Daughter's  Portrait. — Madame  Hahnemann. — Her 
History. — Her  Faith  in  her  Husband. — Hahnemann's  Dietary. — His 
Death  at  eighty-three. — Chretien  Urhan. — An  ascetic  Musician. — 
His  physical  Portrait. — How  he  reconciled  his  Religion  with  his 
Art. — He  gets  a  Dispensation  from  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  to 
play  in  the  Orchestra  of  the  Ope*ra. — How  he  did  play. — A  Vision 
and  what  came  of  it. — His  Visits  to  my  Wife. — A  Lesson  to  a 
Lady  of  Title. — His  Reverence  for  the  Composer's  Idea.— Ho  in 
troduces  Schubert  to  Frenchmen.— Jean-Jacques  Ampere.— Jean. 
Jacques'  Father. — Absentmindedness  of  the-  Father  and  Son. — 
Ampere's  personal  Belongings. — The  Difference  between  the 
Father  and  Son  intellectually. 

I 

SAMUEL  HAHNEMANN  was  one  of  the  great  revolu- 
tionaries of  the  nineteenth  crntury.  It  was  he  who 
towards  1835  began  a  revolution  in  mcdiYal 

!i  still  lasts      I    am   not   discussing  the  system, 
I  am  simply 

An  accident  for  which  I  could  not  be  sufficiently 
ful    brought    me    in    contact    with    him    at    tin- 


206  .'y   Years  of  Recollections 

moment  when  his  reputation  was  fast  changing  into 
fame.  I  contributed,  perhaps,  something  to  this,  and 
the  story  of  the  intimate  friendship  that  sprang  up 
between  us  may  aid  the  reader  in  gaining  an  idea  of 
that  extraordinary  and  superior  human  being. 

My  little  daughter,  then  about  four  years  old,  lay 
dying  ;  our  family  physician,  who  was  attached  to  the 

Hotel-Dieu,  Dr  R ,  had  told  one  of  our  friends 

in  the  morning  that  her  condition  was  hopeless.  Her 
mother  and  I  were  watching  perhaps  for  the  last  time 
by  her  bedside :  Schoelcher  and  Goubaux  were  with 
us,  and  in  the  room  was  also  a  young  man  in  evening 
dress,  who  three  hours  before  was  a  stranger  to  us. 
His  name  was  Amaury  Duval  and  he  was  one  of  the 
most  promising  pupils  of  M.  Ingres. 

We  had  wished  to  preserve  at  least  a  visible  re- 
membrance of  the  dear,  little  creature  we  were  al- 
ready bewailing  as  lost,  and  Amaury,  at  the  urgent 
request  of  Schoelcher*  had  left  a  reception  in 
order  to  paint  that  sad  portrait.  When  the  dear 
and  charming  fellow,  who  was  only  twenty-nine  then, 
entered  the  room,  deeply  moved  by  our  despair, 
neither  we  nor  he  suspected  that  a  few  hours  later  he 
should  render  us  the  greatest  service  anyone  could 
render  us,  and  that  we  should  be  indebted  to  him  for 


*  Victor  Schoelcher,  already  mentioned  ;  one  of  the  most  magnificent 
types  of  the  honest  straightforward,  incorruptible  Republican.  He  was 
on  the  barricade  with  Baudin  and  Esquiros  on  the  3d  December  '51, 
when  Baudin  was  killed. — TR. 


.y   Years  of  Recollections  207 

more  than   the  image  of  our  daughter,  namely,  for 
her  life. 

He  took  up  his  position  at  the  foot  of  the  cot,  the 
light  of  a  lamp  which  had  been  placed  on  a  high 
piece  of  furniture  fell  on  the  face  of  the  child.  Her 
eyes  were  already  closed,  the  dishevelled  hair  was 
falling  on  her  temples,  the  small  face  and  hands  were 
almost  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which  her  head  re- 
clined, but  childhood  itself  is  invested  with  such 
charms,  that  her  approaching  death  seemed  to  shed  an 
additional  grace  on  her  features.  Amaury  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  night  in  making  his  sketch,  the  poor 
fellow  furtively  wiping  his  eyes  now  and  then,  lest  his 
tears  should  drop  on  the  paper.  Towards  morning 
his  drawing  was  finished,  and  influenced  by  his  own 
emotion,  he  had  simply  drawn  a  masterpiece.  He 
just  going,  accompanied  by  our  affectionate  and 
heartfelt  thanks  when  all  of  a  sudden  he  stopped. 
'  Look  here,'  he  said,  '  seeing  that  your  doctor  has 
declared  the  case  to  be  hopeless,  why  not  call  to  your 
aid  that  new  system  of  medicine  which  is  beginning 
to  make  so  much  noise  in  Paris,  why  not  send  for 
Hahnrinann.'  'He  is  right,'  exclaimed  Goubaux, 
'  Hahm-inann  is  my  neighbour,  he  lives  in  the  Rue  de 
Milan,  opposite  i!  I  do  not  know  him,  but  that 

will  make  no  din  I  am  going  to  him  and  will 

\    him   back  with  me.'     When  Goubaux   got   to 
Hahnemann's    there    were   at  'y   people   in 

the    waiting    room.     The    servant    explains    that    he 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

must  wait  for  his  turn.     '  Don't  talk  about  waiting,' 

• 

shouts  Goubaux.  *  My  friend's  daughter  is  dying ; 
the  doctor  must  go  back  with  me  immediately.'  '  But, 
monsieur,'  protests  the  servant.  '  Yes,  I  understand, 
I  understand,'  says  Goubaux,  *  I  came  in  last  What 
does  that  matter.  "  The  last  shall  be  the  first,"  says 
the  Gospel.'  Then  turning  to  those  around  him,  he 
adds,  '  Is  it  not  so,  mesdames  ?  Am  I  not  right  in 
supposing  that  you  will  give  me  your  turn,'  and  with- 
out waiting  for  an  answer,  he  makes  straight  for  the 
doctor's  consulting  room,  opens  the  door  and 
interrupts  a  consultation.  '  Doctor,'  he  says  to 
Hahnemann,  '  I  know  I  am  acting  in  defiance  of  all 
regulations  and  conventionality,  but  you  must  put 
aside  everything  and  come  with  me.  I  want  to 
take  you  to  a  little  girl  of  four  who  will  surely  die  if 
you  do  not  go  to  her  ;  you  cannot  let  her  die,  can  you  ? ' 
And  his  irresistible  fascination  produces  its  usual 
effect ;  an  hour  afterwards  Hahnemann  and  his  wife 
enter  the  sickroom  accompanied  by  Goubaux. 

In  spite  of  all  my  trouble  and  grief,  in  spite  of  my 
brain  racking  with  pain  for  want  of  sleep,  I  could  not 
help  comparing  the  man  who  entered  the  room  to  one 
of  the  characters  from  the  weird  tales  of  Hoffmann. 
Short,  but  well-knitted  and  walking  with  a  firm  step, 
wrapt  in  a  furcoat  from  nape  to  heel  and  leaning  on 
a  thick  cane  with  golden  knob,  he  walked  at  once  to 
the  bedside.  He  was  close  upon  eighty  then,  with  an 
admirable  head  of  long  and  silky  hair  combed  back- 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  209 

wards  and  carefully  arranged   into  a  roll  round  the 
neck  ;   eyes,  of  a   dark   blue   in    the  centre  with  an 
almost  white  ring  round  the  pupil,  a  proud,  command- 
ing  mouth  with   protruding   lower  lip   and   aquiline 
nose.     After  having  cast  a  first  look  at  the  child,  he 
asked  for  particulars  of  her  illness  without  taking  his 
-  off  her  for  an  instant.     Then  his  cheeks  flushed, 
the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  out  like  whipcord  and 
in    an    angry  voice,  he  exclaimed,  'Fling  all   those 
drugs  out  of  the  window  ;  every  vial  and  bottle  that's 
there.     Take   the   cot    from    this    room,   change   the 
sheets  and  the  pillows  and  give  her  as  much  water  as 
she  will  drink.     They  have  lighted  a  furnace  in  the 
poor  child's  body.     We  must  first  of  all  extinguish 
the  fire.     After  that  we'll  see.'     We  timidly  objected 
that    this   change   of  temperature   and    linen    might 
prove   very   dangerous   to    her.      '  What   will    prove 
fatal  to  her,'  was  the  answer,  *  is  this  atmosphere  and 
the  drugs.       Carry  her   into   the   drawing-room,  I'll 
come  back  to-night.     And  above  all,  give  her  water, 
as  much  water  as  possible.' 

He  came  back  that  night,  he  came  back  next  morn- 

and  began  to  give  her  medicines  of  his  own.     He 

expressed  no  opinion  as  to  the  final   issue,  but  merely 

said  each  time,  '  We  have  gained  another  day.'     On 

the  tenth  day  the  danger  grcu   all  at  once  imminent. 

hi  Id':,  knees  had  almost  become  rigid  with  the 

chill  of  death.      At  eight  o'clock    at  night    he   made 

e,    and  remained  lor  a   quarter  of  an 

VOL.    II  o 


2 1  o  *  of  Recollections 

hour.      Apparently    he   was    in    a   state   of    intense 
anxiety,  and    after   having   consulted    with  his  wife, 
who  always  accompanied  him,  he  handed  us  some 
medicine  saying, '  Give  her  this,  and  be  careful  to  note 
whether  between  now  and  one  o'clock  her  pulse  be- 
comes stronger.'     At  eleven  o'clock  I  was  holding  my 
daughter's  arm,  when  I  fancied  I  felt  a  slight  modifi- 
cation in  the  pulsation.     I  called  my  wife,  I  called 
Goubaux  and  Schoelcher.     Let  the  reader  picture  to 
himself  the  four  of  us,  looking  at  the  watch,  counting 
the  beats  of  the  pulse,  not  daring  to  affirm  anything, 
fearing  to  rejoice  until  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed, 
when  we  absolutely  flung  ourselves  into  one  another's 
arms,  the  pulse  had  'gone  up.'     Towards  midnight 
Chretien   Urban  *  entered  the  room.     After  looking 
at  the  child,  he  drew  to  my  side,  saying  with  an  air 
of  profound  conviction,  '  My  dear  M.  Legouve",  your 
daughter  is  safe.'     '  She  is  a  trifle  better,'  I  answered, 
scarcely  knowing  what  I  said, '  but  as  for  her  being  out 
of  danger,  let  alone  on  the  way  to  recovery  .  .  .'     'I 
tell  you  she  is  safe,'  he  insisted,  then  bending  over 
the  cot  by  which  I  was  sitting  alone,  he  kissed  her 
on  her  forehead  and  went  away. 

A  week  later,  the  patient  was,  in  fact,  on  the  road  to 
recovery.  This  cure  assumed  the  importance  of  an 
event  in  Paris,  I  might  almost  say  that  it  created  a 
scandal.  I  was  not  altogether  unknown  and  people 

•  M.  Legouve"  has  given  a  portrait  of  Chretien  Urhan  which  will  be 
found  in  the  following  pages. — TR. 


.V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  211 

freely  used  the  words  *  miracle  and  resurrection.'  The 
whole  of  the  medical  faculty  showed  itself  intensely 

annoyed,  poor  Dr.  R- was  taken  to  task  by  all  his 

colleagues;  very  animated  discussions  took  place  both 
in  society  and  at  the  Faculty.  One  physician  was 
not  ashamed  to  say  aloud  in  M.  de  Jouy's  drawing- 
room  :  *  I  am  very  sorry  this  little  girl  did  not  die.' 
The  majority  of  the  doctors  confined  themselves  to 
repeating  the  parrot  cry  :  '  It's  not  the  quack  who 
has  cured  her,  but  nature  ;  he  simply  benefited  by  the 
allopathic  treatment  left  to  him  by  his  predecessors. 
To  all  of  which  objections  I  simply  made  the  same 
answer  I  still  make  :  *  What  does  it  matter  to  me 
whether  he  was  the  cause  or  the  means  of  saving  her  ? 
What  does  it  matter  to  me  whether  she  was  saved  at 
his  hands  or  between  his  hands?  Was  she  as  good 
as  dead  when  he  entered  my  house  ?  Was  she  cured 
when  he  left  it?  I  wish  to  know  no  more  than  that 
in  order  to  be  everlastingly  grateful  to  him.  Though 
I  may  prove  faithless  to  his  doctrine,  I  will  not  be 
faithless  to  his  memory,  and  to  me  he  will  always 
remain  one  of  the  most  potential  men  I  ever  met.' 

The  very  way  in  which  he  comvived  his  doctrine 

is  in  itself  a  portrait.     Was  it  calculation,  self-intr 

desi;  .me  that    led    to    the  conception,  did  he 

arrive  at  it  by  purely  scientific  research  ?     Not  at  all. 

tern  sprang  from  his  heart.     A  physician  of 

the  hi^he^t   rank,  numbering  among  his  patients  the 

.ul  and  wealthy  in  Germany,  he  claimed 


212  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

one  day  the  co-operation  of  one  of  his  colleagues  for 
his  youngest  child.  The  case  was  very  serious  and 
the  most  drastic  treatment  resorted  to.  All  at  once, 
after  a  terrible  night  of  suffering  on  the  part  of  the 
little  one,  Hahnemann,  beside  himself  with  pity  and 
grief,  exclaimed  :  '  No,  it  is  not  possible  that  God 
should  have  created  those  dear  and  innocent  beings 
for  us  to  inflict  such  tortures  upon.  No,  a  thousand 
times  "  No."  I  will  not  be  the  executioner  of  my 
children.'  And  aided  by  his  profound  knowledge  of 
chemistry  begotten  from  long  study,  he  rushed  as  it 
were  in  quest  of  new  remedies  and  built  up  a  com- 
plete medical  system  of  which  his  fatherly  affection 
was  virtually  the  foundation.  Such  was  the  man,  and 
as  he  was  then,  he  had  always  been.  The  powerful 
structure  of  his  face,  his  square  jaws,  the  almost  in- 
cessant quiver  of  his  nostrils,  the  constant  twitching 
of  the  mouth,  the  corners  of  which  had  dropped  from 
age,  everything  attested  conviction,  passion,  power. 
His  language  was  as  original  as  his  character  and 
figure.  One  day  I  asked  him  why  he  always  pre- 
scribed water  even  to  people  in  good  health.  '  What 
is  the  use  of  crutches  to  people  who  have  got  sound 
legs,  and  wine  is  after  all  no  better  than  crutches.'  It 
is  also  from  his  lips  that  I  heard  that  strange  sentence 
which,  taken  in  its  absolute  sense,  is  apt  to  puzzle  one, 
but  which,  if  properly  understood  goes  to  the  very 
foundation  of  medical  science :  *  There  are  no  dis- 
eases, there  are  people  who  are  ill.'  His  religious 


Si.i-fy    Years  of  Recollections  213 

faith  was  as  intense  as  his  medical  faith.  I  had  two 
striking  proofs  of  this.  One  spring  day  on  entering 
his  room,  I  said  :  '  Oh,  monsieur,  what  a  beautiful 
day.'  *  They  are  all  beautiful  days,'  he  replied  in  his 
calm  and  grave  voice.  Like  Marc-Aurelitis  he  lived 
in  the  bosom  of  a  harmonious  universe.  When  my 
daughter  was  quite  recovered,  I  showed  him  the 
charming  drawing  of  Amaury  Duval.  He  looked  for 
a  long  while  and  with  intense  emotion  at  the  picture 
of  the  dear  little  creature  he  had  snatched,  as  it  were, 
from  the  jaws  of  death,  at  the  little  creature,  such  as 
he  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time  when  she  was  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave,  then  he  asked  me  to  give  him 
a  pen  and  he  wrote  at  the  bottom  : — 

4  God  has  blessed  her  and  saved  her. 

•SAMUEL  HAHNEMANN.' 

He  simply  looked  upon  himself  as  a  minister  who 
countersigns  the  orders  of  his  master. 

1 1  is  portrait  would  not  be  complete  without  that  of 
his  wife.  She  never  left  his  side.  In  his  consulting- 
room  she  sat  at  a  small  table  close  to  his  desk,  work- 
ing like  him  and  for  him.  She  was  present  at  all  his 
consultations,  whatever  the  sex  of  the  patient,  and  the 
subject  of  the  consultation.  She  took  all  the  symptoms 
down  in  writing,  gave  her  advice  to  her  husband  in 
nan  and  prepared  all  the  medicine.  She  accom- 
panied him  in  the  rare  instances  of  his  visiting  a 
patient  at  his  own  home.  But  the  most  notable  fact 
in  connection  with  herself  was  that  I  lahnemann  was 


14  y   Years  of  Recollections 

the  third  old  man  to  whom  she  had  linked  her  ex- 
istence in  that  way.  She  had  started  with  a  painter, 
then  passed  on  to  an  author  and  finished  up  with  a 
doctor. 

Here  is  her  history.  When  between  five-and- 
twenty  and  thirty  Mdlle.  d'Hervilly  (that  was  her 
maiden  name),  handsome,  tall,  elegant,  with  her 
fresh  and  youthful  face  set  in  a  frame  of  fair 
curly  hair,  her  small  blue  eyes  as  piercing  as 
any  black  ones,  links  her  fate  to  that  of  a  cele- 
brated pupil  of  David.  Without  marrying  the 
painter,  she  becomes  wedded  to  his  style  of  painting 
and  might  have  signed  more  than  one  of  his  can- 
vasses, as  later  she  signed  the  prescriptions  of  Hahne- 
mann.  When  M.  L —  -  died,  she  turned  to  poetry, 
represented  in  this  instance  by  a  poet  who  was 
seventy,  for  as  she  went,  her  taste  for  old  men  de- 
veloped. Fired  by  the  communion  with  the  poet, 
she  took  to  writing  short  poems  with  the  same  ardour 
she  had  shown  in  painting  historical  pictures,  and 
the  poet  having  departed  this  life  in  the  course  of  time, 
she  became  somewhat  tired  of  septuagenarians,  and 
married  Hahnemann  who  was  eighty.  After  that  she 
became  as  great  a  revolutionary  in  medical  science  as 
she  had  been  a  classicist  in  literature  and  painting. 
One  day  when  complaining  to  her  of  the  dishonesty 
and  want  of  loyalty  of  a  servant  whom  we  had  been 
obliged  to  dismiss,  she  said:  'Whydid»you  not  tell 
me  of  this  before  ?  We  have  remedies  for  that  kind 


Sixty    )  'cars  of  Recollections  2 1  5 

of  thing.'     Let  me  hasten  to  add  that,  notwithstand- 
ing this  ingenuous  remark,  she  was  gifted  with  a  very 
remarkable  intellect,  and  a  touching  skill  as  a  sick 
nurse.     No  one  better  than  she  understood  the  art 
of  alleviating  the  patient's  suffering    by   numberless 
small  contrivances.     To  the  pious  ardour  of  a  sister 
of  charity  she  added  the  ingenious  delicacy  of  a  well- 
bred  woman  of  the  world.     Her  solicitude  for  Hahne- 
mann  was  truly  admirable.     He  died  as  it  was  fit  he 
should  die.     Until  his  eighty-fourth  year  he  was  the 
most  eloquent    proof  of  the   value  of  his   doctrine. 
Not  a  single  ailment,  not  a  single  lapse  of  memory 
or  intellect.     His  way  of  living  was  simple,  without 
the  slightest  affectation  of  rigorism.     He  never  drank 
pure  water  or  pure  wine.     A  few  spoonfuls  of  cham- 
pagne in  a  decanter  of  water  was  his  sole  beverage, 
and  in  the  way  of  bread,  he  ate  every  day  a  small 
baba.*     '  It's  more  tender  and  easy  for  my  old  teeth,' 
he  said.     In  the  summer  when  the  evenings  were  fine, 
he  returned  on  foot  from  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and 
stopped  on  his  way  home  at  Tortoni's  to  eat  an  ice. 
One  morning,  on  getting  up,  he  felt  less  well  than 
usual.     He  took  some  medicine  and  said  to  his  \\iie, 
'  If  this   does   not   act,    my  is   serious.'     Next 

morning  he  felt  weaker,  and  twenty-four  hours  later, 
he  passed  away  without  pain,  and  recommending  his 
soul  to  God. 

His  death   affected  me  greatly,  and  few  men  have 

*  A  kind  of  sponge  cake,  sometimes  soaked  in  rum  or  sherry.-    '• 


216  .y   Years  of  Recollections 

impressed  me  with  the  idea — to  the  extent  he  did— 
of  being  superior  to  their  fellow-creatures.  Then  how 
did  I  come  to  abandon  his  doctrine?  Purely  from 
admiration  of  the  man.  It  requires  more  than  mere 
confidence  to  be  a  follower  of  homoeopathy,  it  wants 
faith.  The  theory  of  infinitesimal  doses  is  so  entirely 
opposed  to  commonsense  that  one  must  blindly 
believe  in  the  man  to  be  able  to  believe  in  the  thing. 
With  the  disappearance  of  Hahnemann  my  worship 
fell  with  the  object  of  my  worship,  and  his  successors 
seemed  to  me  such  an  immeasurable  distance  behind 
him,  that  gradually — and  also  owing  to  a  new  friend- 
ship I  had  contracted — I  returned  to  the  medical 
creed  of  my  forebears,  in  which  I  am  likely  to  die.  I 
owed,  nevertheless,  this  tribute  to  Hahnemann,  and 
my  ex-voto  will  be  all  the  more  valuable,  seing  that  it 
is  offered  by  an  apostate. 

II 

During  the  first  years  of  Louis-Philippe's  reign 
there  was  seen  on  the  Boulevards  every  evening 
about  six,  a  short  man,  almost  bent  double,  if  not 
absolutely  humpbacked,  and  wrapt  in  a  long  light  blue 
coat.  His  head  reclined  on  his  chest,  he  was  appar- 
ently lost  in  deep  thought,  his  eyes  were  invariably 
turned  towards  the  ground.  His  ashen-grey  com- 
plexion, his  long  nose,  like  that  of  Pascal,  his  ascetic 
look  which  reminded  one  of  a  mediaeval  monk,  pro- 
voked the  question  on  the  part  of  those  who  saw  him, 


Si.vfy    Years  of  Recollections  217 

'Who  is  this  man?'  The  surprise  became  greater 
still  if  they  happened  to  see  this  cenobitical-looking 
individual  stop  at  the  angle  of  the  Rue  Marivaux  and 
enter  the  doors  of  the  Cafe"  Anglais.  But  the  surprise 
changed  into  stupor  if  in  about  an  another  hour  they 
happened  to  see  him  emerge  from  the  fashionable 
restaurant,  cross  the  road  in  the  direction  of  the  Rue 
Le  Peletier,  disappear  into  the  '  artists'  entrance '  to  the 
Academic  Nationale  de  Musique  (otherwise  the  Opera) 
and  finally  take  his  place  among  the  musicians  in  the 
orchestra.  Who  was  he  ?  He  was,  in  fact,  a  kind  of 
fourteenth  century  monk,  pitchforked  by  accident 
into  the  Paris  of  the  nineteenth  century  and  into  the 
:  a.  His  name  was  Urhan,  and  his  parents,  as  if 
foreseeing  what  he  would  be,  had  named  him  Chretien 
(Christian). 

Chretien  Urhan  had  two  creeds.  His  soul  was 
equally  divided  between  faith  and  music.  He  never 
missed  going  to  mass,  strictly  followed  every  penance 
of  the  Catholic  Church,  fasted  every  day  until  six 
o'clock,  never  tasted  flesh,  making  his  dinner  of  fish 
and  milk  at  the  Cafe"  Anglais,  and  played  the  first 
violin  at  the  Opera.  What  had  induced  him  to 
occupy  a  desk  there?  Assuredly  he  had  not  done 
so  without  many  in  «1  violent  struggles 

with  his  conscience.  His  mysticism  f,>rl>ade  him  to 
co-operate  in  the  interpretation  of  works  put  under 
the  ban  of  the  Church,  to  be  an  active  performer  in 
that  amalgam  of  temptation  and  seduction,  but  on 


218  Years  of  Recollections 

the  other  hand,  he  believed  nearly  as  much  in  Gluck, 
Mozart  and  Rossini  as  in  God,  and  he  not  only 
worshipped  religious  music  but  dramatic  music.  To 
give  up  listening  to  and  playing  '  Orph£e/  *  La  Ves- 
tale,' '  Guillaume  Tell/  '  Les  Huguenots,'  etc.,  would 
have  driven  him  to  despair.  What  was  he  to  do  ? 
He  got  out  of  it  by  a  dispensation  and  by  a  com- 
promise. The  dispensation  was  granted  to  him  by 
the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  who  could  not  refrain  from 
smiling  when  Urhan  came  to  ask  him  for  permission  to 
play  the  violin  at  the  Opera.  The  compromise  was 
simply  a  matter  between  himself  and  his  conscience. 
He  promised  himself  to  play  with  his  back  turned  to 
the  stage  and  he  kept  his  pledge.  The  temptation  of 
the  eye  was,  at  any  rate,  avoided  in  that  way.  He 
never  allowed  himself  to  glance  at  an  artist,  at  a  piece 
of  scenery  or  a  costume.  The  thing  answered  more 
or  less  in  the  concerted  pieces  when  the  whole  of  the 
orchestra  was  playing,  but  Urhan  was  first  violin 
(leader),  as  such  he  alone  accompanied  certain  pas 
of  the  ballet.  These  pas  are  as  it  were  duos  between 
the  instrumentalist  and  the  ballerina  ;  in  a  duo  the 
executants  should  look  at  one  another  ;  their  looks 
are  the  only  means  of  communion.  Urhan  did  not 
trouble  himself  about  that.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
piece  he  took  up  his  instrument  as  one  takes  up  one's 
'  beads/  and  with  his  eyes  closed  he  played  the  air 
of  the  ballet,  conscientiously,  religiously  and  with  a 
great  deal  of  expression,  but  without  the  least  concern 


Si.vfy    Years  of  Recollections  219 

for  the  ballerina.  If  she  danced  out  of  time,  so  much 
the  worse  for  her.  I  verily  believe  that  if  she  had 
slipped,  Urban  would  have  gone  on  till  the  end  as 
if  nothing  had  happened. 

Every  one   of  his  actions  was  stamped  with  the 

same  originality.      I    have  often   been    in   the  room 

when  he  called  on  my  wife,  whom  he  liked  very  much. 

He  would  sit  down  by  the  fire,  remain  for  a  quarter  of 

an  hour  without  uttering  a  \vord,  then  rise  and  say : 

4  Good-bye,  dear  Madame  Legouve,  I  felt  the  need  of 

seeing  you.'     One  of  his  oldest  friends,  a  lady  to  whom 

he  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  very  often,  has  shown 

me  a  letter  of  his   in   which  the  ordinary  lines  are 

suddenly  replaced  by  a  bar  of  music,  after  which  he 

adds  :  '  Words  failed  to  convey  my  idea,  so  I  thought 

I    had    better    tell    you    what    I    wanted    in    music.' 

Finally,   he   came   to   tell    me   one   day  how,   while 

strolling  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  he  had  heard  a  voice 

saying  to  him,  '  Write  this,'  and  how  that  voice  had 

there  and  then  sung  an  air  to  him,  how  he  '  noted  the 

air    from  that  voice's  dictation.     Then  handing  me  a 

:    of  music,  he   added:  'Here    is    the   piece,  but 

ig  that  it  is  not  of  my  composing,  I'll  not  assume 

; -edit  of  it,  and  will  call  it  "  Transcription.11 '    And 

that,   in    fact,   was   the   title   under   \\hich    it   appeared 

with  a  short  explanatory  preface  to  it.     The  oddest 

isiness  though,  was  his  constant 

aty  to  me  t<>  write  an  article  for  some  paper  on 

melody.     '  Hut  above  all,'  he  said, 'do  not  in 


22o  ,    Years  of  Recollections 

to  point  out  its  origin.'  I  felt  in  an  awkward  position. 
On  the  one  hand,  I  did  not  wish  to  refuse  him,  lest  I 
should  vex  him  ;  I  did  not  wish  to  ridicule  his  version 
of  the  affair,  lest  I  should  hurt  his  feelings  ;  I  did  not 
wish  to  appear  to  believe  in  it,  lest  I  should  make 
myself  look  ridiculous.  After  cudgelling  my  brain 
for  awhile,  I  managed  to  satisfy  him  and  got  out  of 
the  difficulty  with  flying  colours.  But  only  one 
Journal  consented  to  print  my  miraculous  story — La 
rette  de  France. 

As  a  rule  such  eccentricities  lend  to  laughter,  but 
no  one  ever  dreamt  of  laughing  at  Urhan.  Few  men 
of  his  time  enjoyed  greater  consideration.  The 
sincerity  of  his  faith,  the  austerity  of  his  life,  his 
ardent  charity  (he  gave  away  all  he  earned)  com- 
manded the  respect  and  admiration  of  everyone. 
People  instinctively  felt  that  he  was  what  they 
honour  most  and  justly,  a  sterling  individuality.  His 
dignity  as  an  artist  had  become  proverbial.  This 
dignity  did  not  only  spring  from  his  self-respect,  but 
from  a  reverence  for  his  art.  I  can  quote  a  striking 
proof  of  it.  The  Marquis  de  Prault,  a  very  intelligent 
amateur  of  music,  had  organised  a  series  of  matinees 
of  chamber  music  at  his  mansion  in  the  Faubourg  St 
Honore  and  had  confided  their  direction  to  Urhan, 
who  at  the  same  time  played  the  first  violin.  On  one 
occasion  a  young  duchess  (the  Marquis'  matinees  had 
become  the  fashion,  society  was  delighted  to  air  its 
real  or  assumed  appreciation  of  high-class  music),  a 


.SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  22\ 

young  duchess,  elegant  and  handsome,  enters  the 
room  in  the  middle  of  a  piece,  and  after  causing  the 
little  flutter  of  excitement  she  was  probably  bent 
upon  causing  by  her  late  arrival,  sits  down  and  en- 
gages in  small  talk  with  the  lady  next  to  her. 
Urban  gives  a  sharp  rap  on  his  desk,  stops  the 
quartet,  puts  his  bow  under  his  arm,  looks  vaguely 
around  him  until  the  noise  has  ceased  and  when 
silence  reigns  once  more  gravely  recommences  the 
piece  da  capo.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  from  that 
day  forward  no  one  ever  made  a  noise  at  the  matinees 
of  the  Marquis  de  Prault.  At  the  termination  of  the 
performance  I  went  up  to  him  and  congratulated  him 
on  what  he  had  done.  '  I  will  never  allow  anyone  to 
show  a  want  of  respect  in  my  presence,  to  a  master- 
•/  he  replied  calmly.  He  had  not  felt  hurt  on 
his  own  account,  but  on  that  of  Beethoven. 

As  a^  virtuoso,  Urhan    only  occupied  a  secondary 
rank.      There  were   a  dozen    more   skilful    violinists 
than  he  in  Paris,  but  he  made  up  for  his  relative  in- 
rity  as  an  executant  by  a  gift  as  rare  as  it  is 
[oils,  he  had  an  individual  style.     Urhan's  style 
due  to  his  profound  knowledge  of  all  the  great 
masters,  also  to  his  religious  and  unbending  respect 
•heir  works.     He  would  no  more  permit  any  at- 
tempt at  altering  their  character  in   their  execution, 
than  he  would  permit  their  perf'Tn: 

Habeneck  himself  Qftefl   had   a   hard   tussle  with   him 
on  the  sub;  •••ially  in  the  organisation  of  the 


y    Years  of  Recollections 

concerts  of  the  Conservatoire  in  which  he  (Urhan)  had 
proved  himself  one  of  the  foremost  and  most  useful 
of  auxiliaries.  Any  attempt  of  Habeneck  to  curtail 
words  or  to  suppress  a  few  instruments  in  the  render- 
ing of  a  symphony  met  with  the  most  determined 
protest  and  opposition  from  Urhan,  and  on  one  occa- 
sion when  the  double  bass  parts  had  been  eliminated 
from  the  Choral  Symphony,  Urhan  drew  attention  to 
the  sacrilege  in  an  article  and  signed  it. 

Urhan  had  a  still  more  individual  merit.  As  a  rule 
the  admirers  of  the  past  have  a  contempt  for  the 
present.  Their  admiration  of  the  old  masters  becomes 
complicated  in  virtue  of  their  contempt  for  the  new. 
Their  cult  is  a  jealous,  narrow,  exclusive  cult.  They 
build  for  themselves  a  kind  of  small  Olympus  whence 
they  do  not  emerge,  and  the  entrance  to  which  they 
strenuously  defend.  Urhan's  love  of  the  old  masters 
was  only  equalled  by  his  passionate  admiration  for 
the  masters  of  our  time,  and  even  of  those  of  '  to- 
morrow.' Urhan  was  as  it  were  a  musical  sleuth- 
hound,  and  he  also  brought  the  apostle's  zeal  to  bear 
upon  this.  It  was  he  who  introduced  Schubert  to 
Frenchmen.  Schubert  is  somewhat  shelved  to-day, 
nevertheless,  he  caused  a  musical  revolution  among 
us.  He  showed  us  that  one  might  and  could  write 
masterpieces  of  one  page.  To  a  certain  extent,  and 
from  a  particular  point  of  view,  one  might  call  him 
the  La  Fontaine  of  music,  because  he  crams  as  much 
science,  as  much  art,  as  much  pathos  and  as  much 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  223 

thought  into  a  few  bars  as  La  Fontaine  did  into  a 
few  verses.  Before  Schubert,  the  great  dramatic  com- 
posers, Mozart,  Gliick,  Rossini,  Auber,  Harold,  HaleVy 
and  others  considered  it  incompatible  with  their  art 
to  write  short  compositions,  the  writing  of  which  they 
left  to  the  composers  of  songs.  Schubert  has  killed 
the  '  romance '  and  created  the  '  melody/  in  which 
branch  of  musical  art  Weber,  Gounod,  Massenet, 
Delibes,  Paladilhe  have  since  th'en  '  created '  a  whole 
series  of  short  but  delightful  masterpieces. 

Well,  it  was  Urhan  who  introduced  the  first  lied  of 
Schubert  to  Frenchmen  ;  it  was  Urhan  who,  with 
matchless  energy  and  perseverance,  found  a  trans- 
lator, a  publisher,  and  finally  a  public  for  him. 
Finally,  and  as  a  finishing  touch  to  this  portrait, 
when  Liszt  conceived  the  idea  of  organising  the 
concerts  at  the  Salle  Erhard  (Erard),  in  order  to 
secure  as  brilliant  an  execution  for  the  sonatas,  duos 
and  trios  of  Beethoven  as  had  been  given  to  sym- 
phonies, he  selected  Batta  as  his  'cellist,  and  Urhan 
as  his  violinist.  \Ve  shall  not  meet  with  the  like  of 
t'rhan  as  a  musician  again.  He  belonged  to  the  race 
of  mystical  artists  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Whenever  I 
watched  him  caressing  his  instrument  at  the  Opera, 
:  like  looking  at  a  picture  of  Fra  Beato  Angelico 
painting  in  his  cell.  One  might  well  apply  to  him  the 
much-abused  term,  'the  heaven  of  art,'  because  to 
him  art  and  heaven  meant  the  self-same  thing. 


JJ4  5£tVr    Ydirs  of  Recollections 

III 

I  met  Jean-Jacques  Ampere  for  the  first  time  while 
I  was  a  candidate  for  a  vacant  chair  at  the  Academie- 
Fr;ingaise.  At  seven  o'clock  when  we  sat  down,  quite 
by  accident,  next  to  one  another  at  the  hospitable 
board  of  the  Comte  de  Belle- Isle,  one  of  the  most 
delightful  dilettante  I  have  known,  we  were  strangers  ; 
at  nine  o'clock,  there  had  sprung  up  a  bond  between 
us.  We  had,  at  any  rate,  one  point  in  common, 
he  was  the  son  of  a  man  of  genius;  I  was  the  son 
of  a  man  of  talent,  and  we  had  both  been  brought 
up  in  the  worship  of  our  respective  fathers,  and  with 
the  happy  burden  of  an  honourable  name  to  sustain. 
In  addition  to  this,  my  multifarious  tastes  responded 
to  his  multifarious  gifts.  From  the  first  moment  I 
felt  amazed  at  the  fertility  and  spontaneity  of  that 
imagination.  Since  then,  I  have  known  him  most 
intimately  ;  I  was  sincerely  attached  to  him,  and  in 
order  to  define  his  character  accurately  I  have  been 
compelled  to  invoke  the  names  of  the  most  brilliant 
and  illustrious  in  legend  and  history — preserving,  of 
course,  all  due  proportion  in  my  comparisons.  One 
thing  is,  however,  certain  :  the  most  insatiable  con- 
querors never  pursued  their  conquests  with  the  feverish 
passion  of  J.  J.  Ampere  in  quest  of  a  masterpiece,  a 
monument  or  a  discovery*  What  was  his  specialty  ? 

*  Jean-Jacques  Ampere,  the  son  of  the  eminent  savant  J.  C.  Ampere 
whose  name  is  best  known  in  connection  with  the  first  experiments  in 
electric  telegraphy  in  France.  Jean-Jacques'  is  familiar  to  all  students 
of  French  literature. — TR. 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  22$ 

Well,  his  specialty  was  everything.  Poetry,  the 
drama,  archaeology,  history,  criticism,  everything 
attracted  him,  and  nothing  seemed  sufficient.  After 
the  dead  languages,  the  modern  ;  after  the  modern, 
hieroglyphics,  after  the  study  of  books,  the  study  of 
countries,  after  the  study  of  countries,  the  study  of 
men.  At  twenty  he  went  to  live  for  three  months  near 
Goethe  in  order  to  gain  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
high-priest  of  contemporary  poetry.  He  was  not  a 
traveller,  simply  an  inhabitant  of  every  country  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  He  was  just  as  much  at  home 
in  Rome,  in  London,  in  Heidelberg  as  in  Paris. 
Added  to  this,  a  thorough  man  of  the  world  and 
conversant  with  the  usages  of  the  best  society  every- 
where, for  he  had  been  welcomed  in  every  intellectual 
and  artistic  set  in  Europe.  He  knew  all  their  under- 
currents, all  the  little  foibles  and  hobbies  of  the  men 
and  women  of  which  these  sets  were  composed.  This 
familiar  knowledge,  together  with  his  immense  and 
universal  scholarship  made  him  the  most  extraor- 
dinar  '.  have  ever  met  with.  From  one  end 

of   Kurope  to  the  other,   people  said    'the   charming 

Amp 

That  adjective  greatly  annoyed  M.  de  R^musat  to 
whom  it  was  also  frequently  applied.     He  was  i 

tin      \\onl     implies    something     superficial,    artificial, 

.vhich  no  more  suffices  to  paint  the  character 

Of    Am:*   r      than    that    of   the    author  of   '  Alu-lanl.1 

Ampere's  soul  was  to  the  full  as  richly  endowed  as 
VOL.    II  i' 


S  of  Recollections 

his  mind.  The  generosity  of  his  feelings  was  only 
equalled  by  the  tenderness  of  his  affection.  But  he 
could  be  contemptuously  indignant  as  well.  An 
ardent  advocate  of  liberty  like  his  master  and  friend 
M.  de  Tocqueville,  the  Coup  d'Etat  drove  him  to  a 
state  of  veritable  fury.  For  thirteen  long  years  he 
never  ceased  to  launch  his  invectives — both  written 
and  spoken,  in  prose  as  in  verse,  against  the  new 
empire,  and  more  than  once  he  was  within  an  ace  of 
being  seriously  compromised.  Two  love  -  passions 
equally  odd,  filled  the  whole  of  his  existence.  At 
twenty  he  fell  madly  in  love  with  a  woman  of  forty  ; 
at  sixty  he  conceived  an  ardent  affection  for  a  girl  of 
twenty.  Both  passions  were  the  more  durable  inas- 
much as  neither  was  shared,  and  only  ceased  with  the 
death  of  the  object  of  it.  Odd  to  relate,  for  every- 
thing in  connection  with  him  is  odd,  that  heart,  al- 
ways in  bondage  was  the  companion  of  a  character 
stubbornly  and  savagely  independent.  The  slightest 
restraint  was  odious  to  him,  he  would  be  slave  to 
nothing.  He  never  had  a  home,  he  rented  a  room,  no 
matter  where,  by  the  month  or  by  the  day  as  fancy 
dictated.  He  never  bought  any  furniture ;  all  his 
earthly  possessions  in  that  way  consisted  of  a  trunk— 
if  that  can  be  called  furniture — in  which  he  stored  his 
manuscripts,  books,  toilet  requisites  and  clothes.  The 
latter,  to  tell  the  truth,  did  not  take  up  much  room. 
He  never  had  more  than  one  coat ;  when  it  was  worn 
out,  a  fact  of  which  he  himself  was  never  conscious,  a 


.SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  227 

lady  of  his  acquaintance  replaced  it  by  another,  of 
which  substitution  he  was  equally  unconscious.  I 
said  just  now  that  he  would  be  slave  to  nothing:  I 
was  mistaken.  He  was  slave  to  his  manuscripts. 
One  day  when  wo  were  both  going  to  Gurcy,  the 
country  seat  of  Mme.  de  Haussonville,  he  came  to  the 
station,  wearing  round  his  waist  a  belt,  to  which  was 
attached  a  bag  containing  his  papers  and  to  which  he 
seemed  to  be  rivetted,  looking  not  unlike  a  convict. 
He  could  not  help  laughing  at  himself. 

Those  precautions  sprang  from  his  fear  of  his  own 
forgetfulness  and  absent-mindedness, and  the  apprehen- 
sion was  not  unfounded.  He  was  the  true  son  of  his 
father,  whose  absent-mindedness  had  become  legend- 
ary with  the  pupils  of  the  6cole  Polytechnique  and  the 
instances  of  which  were  handed  down  from  generation 
to  generation.  M.  Ampere  wiping  his  face  with  the 
cloth  intended  to  wipe  the  black  board,  and  turn- 
ing to  his  pupils  with  his  face  a  mass  of  chalk  ;  M. 
Ampere  beginning  to  work  out  a  problem  on  the 
back  of  a  cab  which  happened  to  be  standing  still  at 
the  moment  and  running  after  his  diagrams  when  the 
vehicle  started  ;  M.  Ampere  leaving  his  little  girl  for 
a  whole  day  in  a  waiting-room  ;  M.  Ampere  entering 
his  drawing-room  in  full  dress,  j  uevious  to  going  to  tin- 
Academy,  coat,  waistcoat,  cocked  hat,  sword,  in  short, 
LVC  the  must  indispensable  article  of 
\\V11,  his  son  was  worthy  of  him.  One  day  at 
Mine.  C-  here  he  spent  the  last  years  of  his 


228  SLi'fy    Years  of  Recollections 

life,  surrounded  by  watchful  care  for  his  every  comfort, 
he  entered  the  dining-room  in  a  distracted  state,  just 
as  they  were  sitting  down  to  table.  '  I  can't  make  it 
out,'  he  said,  *  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done  with  the 
key  of  my  room.  I  have  looked  for  it  everywhere  and 
cannot  find  it.' — '  Ask  the  servant.' — '  I  have  asked  ; 
he  has  not  got  it.' — 4  Where  can  you  have  left  it  ?  '- 
'  That's  what  I  can't  make  out.  I  have  looked  every- 
where, in  the  drawers,  in  the  wardrobe,  in  my  little 
cupboard,  I  can't  find  it  anywhere.' — *  Did  you  say 
you  had  looked  in  the  chest  of  drawers  ? '  asked  the 
sprightly  hostess. — *  Yes.' — '  In  the  chest  of  drawers 
in  your  room  ? ' — '  Yes.' — '  Then  you  did  get  into  your 
room.' — '  Of  course  I  got  into  my  room,  seeing  that  I 
am  telling  you  that  I  looked  everywhere.' — '  But  how 
did  you  get  into  your  room  ? ' — *  Parbleau,  with  my 
.  .  .  True,'  he  exclaimed,  *  I  got  in  with  my  key. 
That  is  really  too  funny,  it  must  have  been  in  the 
lock,  and  it  is  there  still.' — There  is  no  need  to 
describe  the  laughter  which  hailed  the  last  words. 

Unlike  his  father,  his  absent-mindedness  never  in- 
terfered with  his  affections,  which  neither  distance, 
time,  nor  place,  could  diminish,  let  alone  efface.  One 
day  while  at  Rome,  near  the  first  woman  he  wor- 
shipped— I  am  alluding  to  Mme.  Recamier — a  letter 
reaches  him  from  his  father,  claiming  his  immediate 
return  to  Lyons,  where  the  elder  Ampere  happened 
to  be  at  that  time,  a  letter  couched  in  the  most  affec- 
tionate terms.  He  tears  himself  away  from  the 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  229 

woman  he  loves,  and  arrives  in  Lyons,  his  heart  al- 
most breaking.  He  is  welcomed  with  open  arms, 
next  morning  at  breakfast  his  father  takes  his  seat, 
evidently  lost  in  thought  and  without  uttering  a 

i.  Suddenly  he  looks  up  and  says,  'Jean- 
Jacques/  (he  had  named  his  son  Jean-Jacques  in  re- 
membrance of  Rousseau),  'Jean-Jacques,  it  is  very 
odd,  but  I  fancied  that  the  sight  of  you  would  give 

;reater  joy  than  it  has  done.' 

Those  very  comical  and  artlessly  cruel  words  would 
never  have  been  uttered  by  the  Ampere  with  whom 
I  am  dealing. 

In  fact,  no  two  men  could  have  been  more  like  and 
at  the  same  time  more  unlike  than  that  father  and 
that  son.  Those  two  superior  intellects  had  two 
characteristics  in  common,  fertility  of  invention  and 
the  faculty  of  initiative.  But  the  moment  they  are  at 
work,  the  bifurcation  commences.  While  the  father, 
confining  himself  strictly  to  science,  evolves  from  his 
concentration  on  one  point  two  or  three  immortal 
discoveries,  the  son  like  a  river  which  has  broken  its 
dams,  expands  his  genius  over  a  hundred  different 
works.  Are  we  to  regret  this?  No.  In  circum- 

)ing  hi>.  .sphere  of  action  he  might,  perhaps,  have 
produced  a  more  enduring  work,  but  he  would  not 
have  been  himself,  namely,  that  multiple  being, 

;ed  with  electricity  and  emitting  sparks  at  every 
shock.  His  works  are  merely  ..ml  '  works. 

de  la  I.itUT.itureau  Trei/ieine  Sifccle,'  his 


230  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

1  Histoire  Romaine  a  Rome,'  his  archaeological  studies 
are  more  or  less  forgotten,  because  there  have  been  so 
many  imitations  of  them.  The  domain  of  thought  is 
like  America,  there  are  two  classes  of  labourers  there, 
the  pioneers  who  make  their  way  into  the  backwoods, 
clear  the  land,  carry  light  and  life  where  there  was 
nought  but  solitude  before  them,  and  the  architects, 
the  builders  who  raise  houses  and  monuments  and 
virtually  efface  the  trace  of  the  labours  that  served  as 
the  foundations  of  theirs.  Ampere  was  a  pioneer. 
He  was  more  than  that.  He  deserved  a  better  title, 
which  was  given  to  him  finally  by  a  very  eloquent 
voice.  On  the  day  of  his  funeral,  the  scholarly  and 
brilliant  M.  Haureau  suddenly  felt  some  one  grasp  his 
arm.  It  was  a  man  of  about  forty,  who  in  a  tone  of 
deep,  intense  conviction  said  to  him,  '  Monsieur,  he 
whom  we  have  just  consigned  to  his  last  resting-place 
was  a  great  citizen.'  The  man  who  spoke  thus  was 
Montalembert. 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  Portrait-Gallery  continued. — Two  Dramatic  Counsellors. — What 
constitutes  a  Dramatic  Counsellor  ? — Germain  Delavigne. — A 
Trio  of  Sucking  Playwrights. — Scribe  and  the  two  Delavignes  at 
work. — Their  Thursday's  Dinners. — An  Exchange  of  Subjects. — A 
Witticism  of  Louis  Philippe. — M.  MaheYault. — Dramatic  Coun- 
sellor and  Art  Collector.— M.  MaheVault's  one  Client.— M.  Maher- 
ault's  Father.— The  Origin  of  the  Comedie-Fransaise  of  To-day. 
— The  Actors  of  the  old  Comedie-Francaise  during  the  Reign  of 
Terror. — The  Difficulties  of  constituting  the  Comedie-Francaise. 
— Council's  Opinion. — The  Way  it  is  Received. — Virgil's  Timidity. 
A  IVench  Counterpart  of  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary. — Scribe's  Way  of 
accepting  Advice. — An  Anecdote  of  Gouvion  Saint-Cyr. — How  the 
Abbe'  was  introduced  into  'Adrienne  Lecouvreur.'  —  Maherault's 
Passion  for  the  Drama.— Mahdrault  as  an  Art  Collector.— The  Sale 
of  his  Collection.—'  If  after  Death  the  Shades  can  feel.' 

I 

OF  .ill  the  productions  of  the  brain,  dramatic  works 

the    mo  ptiblc   of   improvement  by   sug- 

«u  from  the  outside.     And  yet  young  authors 

are  often  told  not  to  depend  upon  the  advice  of  others. 

'Above  all,  try  to  be  yourself,'  repeats  the  would-be 

critic.      'Avoid   your   originality,   your   individuality 

being  tampered   with.'     To  all  of  which   I   reply  by 

pointing    to    Moliere   who    not   only   consulted    his 

mt,    but    the    Prince    de    Conde    besides.      When 


iSY.r/r    YAWS  of  Recollections 

the  first  three  acts  of 'TartufTe'  were  finished,  Molicre 
read  them  to  the  Prince.  '  Your  piece  wants  an 
additional  scene,  Moliere.'  — '  What  kind  of  one, 
Prince?' — 'People  will  be  sure  to  accuse  you  of 
scoffing  at  religion,  anticipate  their  criticism  by 
marking  the  difference  between  real  and  sham  piety.' 
Result  :  the  admirable  lines,  beginning  with — 

'11  est  de  faux  devots  ainsi  que  de  faux  braves.' 

It  seems  to  me  that  what  has  been  useful  to 
Moliere  cannot  be  altogether  useless  to  others. 
Besides,  there  are  facts,  which  in  themselves  settle 
the  question.  In  the  poem,  the  novel,  the  historical 
or  moral  work  the  author  appeals  directly  to  the 
reader.  When  he  has  written  '  The  End '  at  the 
bottom  of  his  manuscript  his  work  is  virtually  finished. 
When  the  playwright  has  penned  the  same  word  he 
is  only  half-way.  A  book  is  a  self-dependent  work, 
not  so  a  play.  It  has  virtually  two  births  :  at  the 
first,  the  author  may  lay  claim  to  the  '  sole  paternity,' 
but  at  the  second,  when  it  leaves  the  swaddling 
clothes  of  manuscript  to  make  its  appearance  on 
the  stage,  the  intermediaries  between  it  and  the 
public  are  numberless.  The  licenser  of  plays  and 
his  readers,  the  managers,  the  actors,  the  spectators 
at  the  dress  rehearsals  are  so  many  counsellors  with 
whom  the  author  discusses,  against  whom  he  defends, 
at  whose  suggestions  he  demolishes,  certain  parts  and 
reconstructs  other  parts  of  his  work.  We  have  but 


.y   Years  of  Recollections  233 

to  ask  the  most  skilful  playwrights  and  they  will  tell 
us  how  much  they  owe  to  advice  from  the  outside. 

Unfortunately  the  efficient  dramatic  adviser  is  rare 
indeed.  Neither  natural  brilliancy,  nor  a  cultivated 
intellect  is  sufficient  to  fit  him  for  the  post.  I  have 
known  men  of  sterling  intellectual  merit,  remarkable 
writers  whose  opinion  on  a  book  was  equivalent  to  a 
verdict  and  who  at  the  hearing  of  a  piece  emitted 
opinions  altogether  valueless.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
have  known  men  of  the  world  with  little  or  no  know- 
ledge of  literature  whose  impressions  of  a  play  were 
infallible  as  a  test  of  its  worth  with  regard  to  the 
public.  And  why  ?  Because  the  judgment  of  a  play 
requires  before  even-thing,  a  great  deal  of  intuition, 
instinct,  I  might  say,  the  gift  of  divination.  When 
a  piece  is  read  to  you,  you  have  not  to  appreciate  it 
as  it  is,  but  as  it  will  be.  The  stage  will  altogether 
transform  it,  hence  in  listening  to  it,  your  mind's  eye 
must  see  it  beforehand  as  it  will  be  on  the  stage,  you 
must  foresee  or  guess  what  that  perspective  of  the 
is  likely  to  add  to  or  take  away  from  it ;  you 
must,  by  a  kind  of  foreknowledge,  enter  into  the  pre- 
judices, take  count  of  the  susceptibilities  of  that 
highly  strung  and  many-sided  collective  being  we  call 
the  public.  This  or  that  phrase  which  passes  un- 
noticed before  three  or  four  list<  nines,  all  at 
once,  in  a  large  play-house,  enormous:  proportions.  In 
some  ca  i  matter  of  latitude;  a  play 
that  Is  in  one  quarter  may  be  a  failure  in 


:v    Yt-tjrs  of  Recollections 

another.  This  should  certainly  be  considered.  Then 
there  is  the  interpretation,  the  surrounding  circum- 
stances, and  the  fickleness  in  judgment.  Hoffmann, 
the  erstwhile  and  clever  writer  of  the  Journal  des 
Dt(bats  meets  a  friend  a  few  hours  before  the  first  per- 
formance of  his  play;  '  Les  Rendez-vous  Bourgeois.' 
1 1  want  you  to  come  with  me  to-night  to  see  a  piece 
which  will  be  hissed  .  .  .  three  hundred  times  in  suc- 
cession.' The  true  dramatic  counsellor  detects  even 
the  possible  success  behind  the  initial  failure. 

It  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  know  two  such 
eminent  dramatic  counsellors.  The  first  bears  a  name 
rendered  illustrious  by  someone  else,  but  to  the  lustre 
of  which  he  has  largely  contributed  :  I  am  alluding 
to  Germain  Delavigne. 

Truly  an  amiable  and  original  character  if  ever 
there  was  one,  this  Germain  Delavigne  He  has  put 
his  name  to  a  great  many  comedies,  in  none  did  his 
name  figure  by  itself  on  the  title  page.  He  was 
incapable  of  writing  a  piece  without  a  collaborates, 
not  because  his  intellect  was  barren,  for  I  have  rarely 
known  a  more  fertile,  a  more  subtle,  a  more  versatile, 
but  because  his  dearly  prized  indolence  prevented  him 
from  accomplishing  by  himself  the  hard  travail  of 
bringing  forth  a  dramatic  child.  No  one  was  less  like 
the  lark  of  La  Fontaine. — 

« Elle  batit  un  nid,  pond,  couve  et  fait  dclore 
A  la  hate  ;  le  tout  alia  dti  mieux  qu  Ml  put.' 

He  did  not  mind  building  a  nest,  provided  someone 


<  of  Recollections  235 

else  would  put  the  egg  into  it.  He  did  not  mind  lay- 
ing the  egg,  provided  someone  else  would  incubate 
it  He  did  not  mind  incubating  it  provided  someone 
would  hatch  But  above  all,  no  hurry-scurry.  He 
was  utterly  incapable  of  hurrying  over  anything. 
His  imagination  was  not  the  hoyden,  skipping  and 
hopping  about  ;  it  was  the  demure  little  fairy,  quietly 
active,  doing  a  great  deal  of  business  with  very  little 
noise. 

His  brother  and  he  had  been  schoolfellows  of 
Scribe.  As  soon  as  *they  were  emancipated  from 
bondage,  they  met  every  Thursday,  and  when  the 
dessert  was  on  the  table,  communicated  to  one  another 
their  plans  with  regard  to  work.  Casimir  submitted 
the  sketch  of  a  tragedy,  Scribe  the  idea  of  a  vaude- 
ville, Germain  submitted  nothing  at  all.  He  simply 
brought  to  the  common  fund  his  exquisite  taste  and 
his  inventive  faculties,  which  he  applied  in  modifying 
and  improving  the  work  of  the  other  two.  With  his 
kindly,  ruddy  and  placid  face,  his  bright  and  clever 
smile,  he  enacted  the  part  Chapelle  filled  at  the 
suppers  at  Auteuil,  or  rather  between  his  two  over- 

•  companions,  always  'pregnant  with  somctl 

•nacted,  as  it  were,  the  deputy-father,  suggesting 

an  idea  to  the  one  in  want  of  an  idea,  an  epigram  to 

the  other  who  asked  for  an  epigram,  a  bit  of  advice 

\\hen    then-  was  need  of  a  bit  of  advice  ;   in  short,  he 

•    their  disposal   the  fruit   of  his   vast  reading. 

'I  am  going  to  look  through  Germain.'  said  Ca-imir, 


236  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

when  in  want  of  a  piece  of  historical,  anecdotal  or 
artistic  information,  and  the  living  book  immediately 
replied,  falling  open  of  its  own  accord  at  the  exact 
place  wanted.  The  contrast  in  the  character  of  the 
three  companions  was  shown  in  their  habits  when  at 
work.  Casimir  Delavigne  worked  marching  up  and 
n  the  room,  Scribe  never  left  his  chair,  Germain 
never  left  his  couch.  He  had  scarcely  got  out  of  bed 
when  he  lay  down  again  on  the  sofa.  He  spent  his 
existence  on  his  back  like  an  Oriental,  only,  instead 
of  smoking  he  took  snuff,  and  instead  of  dreaming, 
he  read. 

The  following  trifling  fact  shows  this  dramatic 
counsellor  at  work.  Scribe  brings  him  '  Genevieve, 
ou  la  Jalousie  paternelle.'  The  reader  may  be  aware 
that  the  piece  deals  with  a  father  who  shows  every 
suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand  the  door,  because  he 
cannot  make  up  his  mind  to  part  with  her.  When 
Scribe  has  finished  reading  his  piece,  Germain  says  : 
1  Your  piece  is  an  impossibility.  Your  father  is  a 
downright  egotist  who  sacrifices  everything  to  him- 
self. As  for  loving  his  daughter,  he  does  not  love  her 
a  bit.' 

Scribe  takes  his  piece  home  with  him  and  at  their 
next  meeting  reads  his  comedy  which  he  has  altered 
and  corrected.  *  This  time,'  Germain  exclaims,  *  you 
have  made  your  father  more  impossible  still  ;  he  is 
too  fond  of  his  daughter.'  A  profound  remark 
whence  sprang  the  third  and  last  form  of  that  little 


.V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  237 

masterpiece  of  delicate   portraiture   entitled    *  Gene- 
vieve.' 

The  Thursday  dinners  were  not  only  devoted  to 
consultation,  there  was  an  exchange  of  subjects,  a 
borrowing  and  lending  of  denouements.  One  day 
Casimir  makes  his  appearance  in  a  state  of  great  con- 
sternation, he  is  at  an  utter  loss  for  the  denouement  of 
the  fifth  act  of '  l'£cole  de  Vieillards,'  the  final  situa- 
tion persistently  eludes  his  grasp. 

'  One  moment,'  says  Scribe,  '  I  am  just  putting  the 
last  touches  to  a  vaudeville,  entitled,  "  Michel  and 
Christine,"  and  have  hit  upon  an  ingenious  device  for 
settling  matters  satisfactorily,  the  device  would  suit 
y>ur  piece  admirably,  you  may  have  it  and  welcome.' 
'And  what  will  you  do?'  Til  keep  it  just  the 
same.'  '  And  what  about  the  public  ? '  *  The  public, 
the  public  will  not  find  it  out.  No  one  will  suspect 
for  one  moment  that  the  denouement  of  a  little,  one- 
act  piece  and  that  of  a  grand  five-act  comedy  in  verse 
can  be  the  self-same  thing.  You  may  take  it  without 
just  as  I  will  keep  it  without  remorse.'  Scribe's 
:i  proved  correct,  not  a  single  critic  noticed  the 
likeness,  but,  of  course,  the  denouement  of  the  vaude- 
ville appeared  charming,  while  that  of  the  comedy 
i-d  weak.  A  thin  thread  suffices  to  tie  a  short 
act  together,  it  must  be  untied  with  a  deft  and  ! 
hand,  but  a  grand  w<  >rk  iv<  juii  force  and  vigour 

in  its  solution  than  in  its  conception. 

Those  kind'  uiges  ga  to  another  very 


238  .V/.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

curious  incident.  Casimir  was  turning  over  in  his 
mind  a  lively,  amusing,  spirited  subject  for  a  two- 
act  comedy  ;  it  was  to  be  founded  on  a  diplomatic 
misunderstanding  ;  a  young  fellow  who  has  been  sent 
to  a  small  State  in  Germany  in  search  of  a  particular 
costume  for  a  ball  is  mistaken  for  an  important 
diplomatic  envoy.  On  the  same  day  that  Casimir 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  work  out  this  plot,  Scribe 
and  Germain  appear  at  the  weekly  meeting  with  a 
plot  with  which  they  profess  themselves  delighted  ; 
the  story  of  a  young  princess  of  eighteen  who  with  all 
her  grace,  coquetry,  finesse  and  ignorance  has,  more- 
over, a  secret  affection  which  sets  her  heart  aglow,  and 
is  all  of  a  sudden  thrown  amidst  the  intrigues  of  a 
small  court.  She  steers  her  course  among  the  suitors 
for  her  royal  hand  with  as  much  skill  as,  and  a  good 
deal  more  sprightly  gaiety  than,  Penelope  herself. 
Both  plots  meet  with  the  same  enthusiastic  reception, 
and  the  three  companions  part  from  one  another  with 
the  applause  awaiting  the  two  pieces  already  ringing 
in  their  ears.  A  few  days  elapse  when  one  fine 
morning  Scribe  gets  the  following  letter  from  Casimir  : 
*  My  dear  friend,  I  cannot  get  your  princess  out  of 
my  head.  I  am  positively  in  love  with  her.  I  want 
you  to  give  her  to  me.  My  diplomatist  seemed  to 
please  you.  Take  him.  Let  us  make  an  exchange/ 
•Very  well,'  says  Scribe,  'let  us  make  an  exchange.' 
And  the  transaction  resulted  in  the  idea  of  Casimir 
developing  into  *  Le  Diplomate,'  and  that  of  Scribe 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  239 

and  Germain,  being  embodied  in  '  La  Princesse 
Aurclie';  that  is,  Casimir  had  bartered  a  success  for 
a  failure.  On  which  fact  Scribe  commented  by  say- 
ing :  'Germain  and  I  would  have  had  the  same 
success  with  "  La  Princesse  Aurclie  "  as  we  had  with 
"  Le  Diplomate,"  for  we  would  have  made  a  two-act 
comedy  out  of  it  and  not  a  five-act.  Furthermore, 
we  would  have  written  it  in  prose  and  not  in  verse. 
It  is  the  verses  that  ruined  Casimir.  He  writes  them 
too  well  and  they  are  too  pretty ;  the  material  was 
too  thin  to  stand  the  embroidery  and  the  coat 
cracked.  That  is  the  result  of  being  a  poet.'  Then 
he  added,  laughing  :  *  That  kind  of  thing  could  never 
happen  to  me.' 

A  final  trait  to  the  picture  of  that  friendly  and 
brilliant  trio.  In  the  days  when  they  had  not  made 
a  name  for  themselves,  the  three  companions  often 
went  to  the  Theatre- Fran^ais  to  wind  up  their 
evening.  *  Ah,'  they  said,  '  if  we  could  only  get  a 

ing  on  that  stage.'  A  few  years  afterwards, 
tluy  still  dined  together  and  went  to  finish  up  their 
evening  at  the  Thcatre-Fran^ais,  where  on  one  of 

c  occasions  they  were  playing  *  L'l^cole  des 
Vieillards,' and  '  Valeric.'  (iermain  iX-lavi-ne's  name 

not  "ii  the  bill,  but  his  spirit  and  epigram  pervaded 
both  pieces.  He  aluay>  remained  the  prime  cnnsult- 

•n  after  the  Thursday  dinners 
1C  a  time  uhen  they  did  cease,  in 
he  day  when  the  two  Delavi 


240  \\ws  of  Recollections 

got  married.  1  advisedly  say  the  day,  for  they  both 
got  married  on  the  same  day  which  circumstance 
elicited  a  clever  mot  from  Louis-Philippe.  The 
brothers  went  to  apprise  him  of  the  impending 
change  in  their  condition.  '  We  are  both  going  to 
get  married  on  Thursday,  sire.'  '  Indeed,  and  at  the 
the  same  hour  ? '  *  Yes,  sire.'  '  And  in  the  same 
church  ? '  '  Yes,  sire.'  '  And  to  the  same  woman  ? ' 


II 


Our  second  dramatic  counsellor  also  deserves  a 
place  among  the  cabinet  pictures  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

On  the  5th  June  1879,  there  died  in  Paris  at  the 
age  of  eighty-four  a  gentleman  of  whose  *  life '  and 
death  the  public  were  made  aware  at  the  same  time 
by  some  short  obituary  notices  in  the  papers.  His 
name  was  M.  Maherault 

Who  and  what  was  M.  Maherault  ?  An  unknown 
man  who  deserves  to  be  known  for  three  different 
reasons.  He  was  in  turns  and  at  the  same  time  an 
eminent  administrator,  a  very  valuable  dramatic 
counsellor  and  a  noted  art  connoisseur  and  collector. 
Having  entered  the  Ministry  for  War  when  very 
young,  he  rose  gradually  to  the  most  important 
positions,  solely  in  virtue  of  the  services  he  rendered. 
The  Due  d'Orleans,  struck  by  his  high  administrative 
capacities  'and  his  views  on  military  reform  said  one 


Si.vfy  '  Years  of  Recollections  241 

day,  '  Monsieur  Maherault,  you  shall  be  my  Minister 
for  War.' 

The  death  of  the  Due  made  an  end  of  those 
brilliant  expectations  ;  at  the  advent  of  the  Second 
Republic,  he  was  at  the  head  of  a  department  and  was 
promoted  to  the  post  of  secretary-general,  on  which 
occasion  Scribe  wrote  him  the  following  charming 
letter  :— 

1  MY  DEAR  SECRETARY-GENERAL, — Long  live  the 
Republic  and  your  wife  and  mine,  and  Lisbeth  and  the 
whole  of  your  family  which  is  virtually  ours.  We 
furthermore  beg  to  thank  the  actual  government  for 
discharging  the  debts  of  the  Monarchy. — Yours  under 
all  reigns,—'  E.  SCRIBE.' 

In  1851,  General  de  Saint-Arnaud  wished  to  include 
him  in  the  reorganisation  of  the  Council  of  State,  on 
the  sole  condition  that  he  should  attend  the  reception 
of  the  Prince- President  that  night  at  the  Elyse"e. 
Maherault  simply  replied :  *  If  I  possess  no  other 
claims  to  the  promotion,  that  visit  will  not  provide 
me  with  any  ;  if  on  the  other  hand,  as  I  believe,  I 
have  some  claims,  the  visit  is  use-less,  and  the  condi- 
tion offensive  ;  I  will  not  go  to  the  Elysee.'  He  kept 
his  word,  and  VTOfl  not  appointed.  Such  was  the  man 

public  capa 

As  for  his  second  role,  that   of  dramatic  counsellor. 

it  for  the  benefit  of  one  author,  but 

•   with  a  vengeance;     It  :;cra- 

\ol..     II  Q 


242  ;r   Years  of  Recollections 

tion  to  say  that  the  maintenance  and  increase  of 
Scribe's  glory  had  become  a  profession  with  Mahe- 
rault  Each  morning,  however  pressing  his  adminis- 
trative business,  he  called  on  Scribe  on  his  way  to  the 
Ministry,  and  as  a  matter  of  course,  found  the 
playwright  at  work.  The  visit  often  lasted  only  a 
few  minutes,  just  long  enough  to  go  in,  to  say  '  How 
do  you  do,'  to  cast  his  eyes  over  the  half-finished  page 
on  the  writing  table,  to  sniff  the  air  of  that  study,  and 
to  inquire  if  things  were  going  all  right,  whether  there 
was  not  some  matter  with  this  or  that  manager  in 
which  he,  Maherault,  could  be  of  use,  and  to  go  out 
again.  More  often  than  not,  Scribe  did  not  stop  his 
work,  did  not  get  off  his  chair,  but,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  paper,  went  on  writing,  merely  saying :  '  Oh,  it's 
you  ;  how  are  you  ?  How  is  your  wife  ? '  The  scene 
meanwhile,  was  proceeding  apace.  But  every  now 
and  then,  Scribe  put  down  his  pen,  saying  ?  '  You  are 
the  very  man  I  want ;  you  remember  the  situation 
that  puzzled  me  yesterday.  I  think  I've  made  it  all 
right.  Just  listen  to  it.'  Then  when  he  had  finished 
reading:  'Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?'  If 
Maherault  happened  to  say,  '  I  don't  think  you  have 
got  hold  of  it  ;  I  am  not  altogether  satisfied,  and  I'll 
tell  you  why ; '  Scribe  invariably  replied  in  his 
quietest  manner :  *  Very  well,  you  had  better  go  now, 
I'll  just  see  who  is  right,  you  or  I,  and  I'll  read  you 
to-night  what  I  have  done.'  In  what  way  had 
Maherault  become  entitled  to  this  confidence  ?  By 


of  Recollections  243 

his  affection  for  Scribe,  no  doubt,  but  more  so  by 
his  education,  or  rather  by  his  being  the  son  of  his 
father. 

If  the  Com^die-Fran^aise  wishes  to  show  its  grati- 
tude, nay,  to  discharge  a  debt,  it  ought  to  place  in  its 
crushroom  and  in  a  prominent — the  most  prominent 
,  the  bust  of  the  elder  Mahe"rault ;  but  for  him 
there  would  be  no  Comedie-Fran^aise  to-day.  The 
year  1793  had  suppressed  the  Com^die-Fran^aise 
under  circumstances  which  graphically  depict  the 
period  itself  At  the  eighth  performance  of'  Pamela' 
(adapted  from  Richardson's  novel)  by  Francois  de 
Neufchateau,  the  following  two  lines  were  frantically 
applauded — 

'  Ah  !  les  persecuteurs  sont  les  seuls  comhmiu: 
Et  les  plus  tolerants  sont  les  plus  raisonnables.' 

For  the  sake  of  the  period  itself,  I  sincerely  trust 

that  the  applause  was  not  due  to  the  supposed  literary 

merit  <»f  these  lines,  but  be  this  as  it  may,  'a  patriot 

in  uniform,'  says  Le  Saint  Public,  rose  from  his  seat  in 

the  balcony,  and  shouted  in  an  indignant  voice  :     '  No 

political   tolerance  !      Political   tolerance  is   a   crime.' 

The  famous  actor  Fleury  replies  to  the  interpellation 

and  the  public  applauds  still  more  frantically.     The 

•i   uniform   is  hooted   out   of  the    place,  and 

day  there  comes  an  order  from  the  Committee 

of  I'ublic  Safety  to  close  the  Theatre  and   take-   the 

actors     to     prison.        Mine.     Roland     relates     in     her 

that    one    eveni:  was   startled    by 


244  r    Years  of  Recollections 

the   sound   of  loud    laughter   and    song    proceeding 
from    the    passages   of  the   prison,   on    inquiry   she 
found   that  the  comedians   of  the   Theatre-Frangais 
had  arrived,  they  were  accused  of  preaching  modera- 
tion, of  a  want  of  civic  zeal,  nay,  of  conspiring  in 
favour   of  royalty,  by  having  performed   a    play   of 
reactionary  tendencies.    They  took  their  incarceration 
in  such  a  cheerful  spirit  that  one  of  them  said,  '  How 
well    we  did  play  to-night.      I   suppose   it   was  the 
threat  hanging  over   us   that   spurred    us   on.      We 
simply  showed  our  accusers  that  we  did  not  care  a 
snap   of  the   fingers   for    them.      We'll   perhaps   be 
gullotined,  but  never  mind,  it  was  a  capital  perfor- 
mance.'    I  have  got  an  idea  that  it  is  only  French 
artists  who  could  make  that  kind  of  thing  a  pretext 
for  playing  with  greater  spirit  and  brilliancy.     When 
the  Reign  of  Terror  was  at  an  end,  the  Directory 
established,  and  Frangois  de  Neufchateau  had  become 
a  minister,  his  great  anxiety  was  to  reconstruct  the 
Theatre-Frangais.     It  was  the  least  he  could  do  for 
it      Unfortunately    the    Theatre-Frangais    was    by 
then  a  name  and  nothing  more.     Overthrown  by  the 
Revolution,  it  had  split  up  into  three  inferior  theatres, 
three  companies  under  the  direction  of  three  enter- 
prising managers,  all  three  of  whom  were  fast  going 
to  ruin. 

One  bankruptcy  followed  hard  upon  another — 
nothing  therefore  seemed  easier  than  to  effect  a  re- 
conciliation between  those  members  who  had  been 


Si.vtr    Years  of  Recollections  245 

united  so  long  and  who  while  separated  were  suffer- 
ing dearly  for  that  separation.  Seemed  ;  in  reality 
nothing  was  more  difficult  than  to  bring  about  that 
juncture.  There  were  obstacles  of  all  kinds  ;  material 

icles  ;  several  of  the  older  and  not  a  few  of  the 
most  eminent  members  having  gone  to  the  provinces 
and  even  to  foreign  countries.  Then  there  were 
political  obstacles  ;  the  most  ardent  party-feeling 
divided  many  ;  there  were  the  republicans  on  the  one 
hand,  the  royalists  on  the  other,  and  all  were  equally 
irreconcilable  and  fanatically  incensed  against  their 
opponents.  The  charming  Mdlle.  Contat,  whom  the 
dearest  reminiscences  bound  to  the  monarchy,  ex- 
claimed :  '  I  would  prefer  being  guillotined  not  only 
with  regard  to  my  head,  but  from  head  to  foot  rather 
than  appear  on  the  same  boards  with  that  horrible 
Jacobin  of  a  Dugazon.'  Added  to  this  there  was  the 
vexed  question  of  professional  vanity.  More  than 

of  those  actors  on  joining  a  second-rate  company 
had  become  a  leader,  nay  a  star.  The  non-com- 
missioned officers  had  become  captains,  and  the  cap- 
tains colonels.  True,  we  have  seen  in  our  da 

ich  marshal  redescend  by  his  own  will  to  the 
simple  rank  of  a  general  of  division  in  the  very  army 
of  which  but  the  day  before  he  had  been  the  chief, 
but  in  the  army  of  actors  such  abnegation  of  si 
unknown.  An  understudy  who  has  happened  to  be- 
come the  1«  man  in  his  own  line  consent  to 

me  an  understudy  once  more,  a  star  consenting 


246  '}•    Years  of  Recollections 

voluntarily  to  re-enter  the  group  of  nebulae  ?  Perish 
the  thought !  There  was,  finally,  the  question  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  the  salaries  were  most 
uncertain,  but  considerably  larger  in  the  case  of 
temporary  engagements  ;  this  or  that  leading  actor 
had  only  signed  with  the  impressario  with  a  solid 
guarantee  for  the  whole  of  his  money,  in  that  way  the 
concern  might  go  *  smash '  but  the  actor  himself  was 
safe.  The  difficulty,  therefore,  was  to  remove  those 
many  obstacles,  to  satisfy  conflicting  claims,  to  silence 
rival  passions,  to  conciliate  opposing  interests.  To 
do  this  required  little  short  of  a  miracle,  and  the 
miracle  was  accomplished  by  the  elder  Mahe"rault. 
Francis  de  Neufchateau  gave  him  plenary  powers  and 
in  fact,  put  the  whole  of  the  burden  of  the  work  on 
him,  Mahe"rault  put  his  heart  and  soul  in  the  busi- 
ness. *  You  are  undertaking  an  impossible  task,'  said 
Saint-Prix,  the  actor  to  him  ;  '  you  do  not  know  the 
race  you  are  dealing  with,  they  will  kill  you  with  pin- 
pricks.' '  They  may  if  they  like,'  replied  Mahe"rault, 
'  meanwhile  I'll  put  fresh  life  into  them.  I  want  the 
Comedie-Frangaise  to  become  a  national  institution,  I 
wish  the  artists  to  have  a  home  of  their  own  and  the 
home  to  be  called  "  The  House  of  Moliere,  Corneille, 
and  Racine."  '  He  proved  as  good  as  his  word. 

On  the  nth  Priarial  of  the  year  VII  of  the  First 
Republic  (3<Dth  May  1799)  the  walls  of  Paris  displayed 
the  following  bill, '  Re-opening  of  the  Theatre- Frangais. 
11  Le  Cid  "  and  "  L'£cole'des  Maris."  The  sight  of  that 


Years  of  Recollections  247 

poster  repaid  M.  Maherault  for  all  his  trouble  ;  he 
never  would  take  any  other  reward. 

Brought  up  by  such  a  father,  there  is  no  need  to 
say  much  about  the  education  of  the  son.  The 
passion  for  the  theatre  was  in  his  blood.  He  was 
barely  two  years  old  when  taken  to  the  playhouse  for 
the  first  time,  Marie-Joseph  Chewier  (the  dramatic 
author)  was  his  godfather  and  Mme.  Vestris  (his  god- 
mother). He  got  as  much  schooling  at  the  wings  of 
the  Come"die-Franc/iise  as  at  the  College  de  Navarre. 
He  lived  and  grew  up  between  Talma,  Fleury,  Mold 
and  Mdlle.  Contat,  and  for  twelve  years  every  success 
at  the  Com&die-Fran^aise  found  an  echo  as  it  were  in 
the  brain  of  that  lad.  In  his  case  the  doctrine  of 
predestination  does  not  admit  of  a  moment's  discus- 
sion, nature  meant  him  to  be  a  dramatic  adviser.  The 
most  characteristic  trait  in  connection  with  this  func- 
tion is  that  he  brought  both  his  taste  as  a  dilettante 
and  his  methodical  spirit  as  an  administrator  to  bear 
upon  it. 

Maherault  was  the  very  opposite  of  Germain 
Delavigne.  The  latter  never  put  his  advice  in  writing. 
I  the  distinctive  mark  of  his  judg- 
ments, such  conciseness  suited  his  indolent  tempera- 
ritical  subtleness  scarcely  required 
•  than  a  phrase  to  express  its  view.  Maherault 
!  much  more  than  a  single  hearing  to  form  an 
opinion,  nor  in  a  single  line. 

No  one  knew  this  better  than   Scribe,  and  when   he 


24$  ty    Years  of  Recollections 

had  finished  and  read  his  piece  to  him,  he  simply 
handed  it  over  to  him,  after  which  Maherault  began 
to  state  his  real  advice,  his  advice,  pen  in  hand. 

I  have  before  me  a  file  of  papers,  labelled,  '  My 
Remarks  on  Scribe's  pieces,  before  their  performance.' 
These  '  remarks '  are  nothing  less  than  so  many 
analyses  of  ten,  twelve  pages  each,  I  have  seen  some 
of  twenty-five  pages. 

Maherault  analyses  the  work  act  by  act,  scene  by 
scene,  character  by  character,  almost  line  for  line. 
Not  a  single  contradiction  escapes  his  vigilant  eye, 
not  an  error  but  what  he  points  it  out ;  I  say  '  points 
it  out,'  I  might  say  pursues,  for  he  brings  the  im- 
placable honesty  of  the  conscientious  head  of  a 
department  to  bear  upon  his  functions.  His  sincerity 
often  trenches  upon  harshness,  as  for  instance  :  'These 
verses  are  deplorably  weak,  they  contain  neither  an 
epigram  nor  an  original  thought.  The  bad  prose 
they  are  intended  to  replace  was  far  better.'  We  are 
confronted  with  the  bluff,  not  to  say  rough,  honesty 
of  intercourse  which  Montaigne  claimed  from  genuine 
friendship.  I  greatly  honour  Maherault  for  that 
sincerity,  but  I  must  confess  that  I  admire  Scribe 
as  much.  He  shows  his  exceptional  character  in 
this  as  he  does  in  everything. 

The  authors  who  consult  their  friends  may  be 
divided  into  three  .classes :  the  humble  who  have  no 
confidence  in  themselves,  the  vain  who  never  lack 
confidence  in  themselves,  and  the  men  of  parts,  the 


Si.i'ty    1  'cars  of  Recollections  249 

men  of  strength,  who  listen  to,  appreciate,  and  benefit 
by,  everything.  At  the  first  critical  remarks  that 
fall  from  your  lips,  the  humble  are  sure  to  exclaim  : 
*  Indeed  you  are  right,  it  is  very  bad.'  And  they  are 
ready  there  and  then  to  condemn  the  whole  of  the 
work  and  to  throw  it  into  the  fire.  One  is  always 
obliged  to  snatch  their  '  ^Eneid '  from  their  hands. 
But  that  class  of  author  is  not  very  numerous. 

The  vain  ones  look  surprised,  smile  disdainfully, 
and  show  great  irritation.  They  are  the  grandsons 
of  Oronte.*  Ancelot  t  was  a  type  of  that  kind. 
After  having  listened  to  one  of  his  comedies  and  over- 
whelmed him  with  the  adjectives,  'delightful,'  'charm- 
ing '  exquisite,  a  listener  ventured  timidly  to  remark, 
'The  second  act  is  perhaps  a  little  too  long/  T  think 
it  too  short,'  replied  Ancelot  emphatically.  Then 
come  the  masters  of  their  craft,  whose  distinctive 
trait  is  not  only  to  ask  for  advice,  but  to  listen  to  it, 
to  profit  even  by  bad  advice,  to  interpret  the  listener's 
silence,  to  read  on  his  face  the  effect  of  their 
words,  to  allow  for  the  character  and  intelligence  of 
each  of  their  counsellors,  in  short,  to  judge  their 
judges ;  tin's  is  the  characteristic  of  superior  men. 
Some  short  fragments  from  the  correspondence  of 
the  two  friends  will  tend  to  show  in  what  manner  the 


•  The  Oronte  of  Moliere's  'Misanthrope,1  not  the  one  • 
des  Femmes.'— TK. 

i  he  sometime   Director   of  the   Vaudeville  and  member  of    the 
Academic-Fran  vaise.—  TK. 


250  ;    Years  of  Recollections 

one  gave  advice,  in  what  manner  the  other  profited  by 
it 

•SfcRICOURT,  24^  September,  1842. 

'  I  have  entirely  reconstructed  the  fourth  act,  mind,  from  the  first  to 
the  last  line,  and  considerably  altered  the  others.  Will  you  and  can  you 
let  me  read  them  to  you  once  more,  if  it  be  not  trespassing  too  much 
on  your  friendship  ? ' 

1  S6RICOURT,  October,  1845 

'  I  will  have  finished  my  second  volume  (this  time  it  was  a  novel)  in 
three  days.  I'll  bring  it  to  Paris  to  you  and  put  it  to  school  with 
you  for  a  while.  The  first  volume  has  fared  too  well  at  your  hands  for 
its  brother  not  to  claim  the  same  care. 

'  Since  you  went  away,  1  have  read  all  your  remarks  on  my  three 
acts,  or  nearly  all,  for  your  remarks,  dear  friend,  are  an  astounding  and 
gigantic  bit  of  work,  and  like  everything  you  do,  conscientious  to 
a  degree.  From  what  I  have  read,  you  are  perfectly  right ;  all  your 
notes  are  in  excellent  taste,  and  marked  by  profound  criticism,  but  I 
am  really  at  a  loss  whether  to  thank  you  or  not,  for  now  I  feel  bound 
to  attend  to  every  one  of  your  suggestions  and  that  will  take  me  a  long 
while.' 

Maherault  in  addition  to  the  subtle  critical  faculty 
which  he  brought  to  bear  upon  his  functions  of 
dramatic  adviser,  had  two  qualities  essential  to  the 
part.  He  only  advised  you  to  do  that  of  which  you 
were  capable.  I  was  always  complimenting  him  upon 
that  acute  perception,  and  one  day  I  told  him  in  con- 
nection with  this  a  capital  anecdote  about  Gouvion 
Saint-Cyr  which  I  had  from  M.  Guizot. 

Gouvion  Saint-Cyr  was  only  second-in-command 
to  General in  Spain.  The  enemy  was  harass- 
ing our  army  corps,  and  there  was  a  doubt  whether 
we  ought  to  give  battle  or  retreat.  The  general-in- 
chief  summons  a  council  of  war  at  which  Gouvion 
Saint-Cyr  strongly  pronounces  in  favour  of  a  retreat, 
which  advice  is  adopted.  An  hour  before  the  time 


Si.rty    Years  of  Recollections  2  5  i 

fixed  for  striking  the  tents,  the  general-in-chief  is 
severely  wounded  by  the  bursting  of  a  shell  during  a 
reconnaissance.  Gouvion  Saint-Cyr  assumes  the  com- 
mand, immediately  countermands  the  retreat,  gives 
battle  and  wins  the  day.  *  Why  did  'you  advise  the 
general-in-chief  this  morning  not  to  give  battle  ? ' 
asked  one  of  his  officers.  '  Because  he  would  have 
lost  it,'  was  the  answer. 

Maherault's  second  merit  was  that  he  belonged  to 
what  I  would  call  the  inrcuthc  advisers,  to  those 
intellects  which  are  both  active  and  sensible  at  the 
same  time,  who  without  even  substituting  their  judg- 
ment to  yours,  show  you  your  own  road  and  complete 
your  own  idea.  One  day,  while  we  were  reading 
'  Adrienne  Lecouvreur'  to  him,  Maherault  said  '  Your 
piece  wants  another  personage.1  '  And  where,  in  the 
name  of  all  that's  sensible  are  we  to  put  your  ad- 
ditional personage?'  'We'll  put  him  in  the  place  of 
one  who  is  ahead}-  there.1  'What  do  you  mean?' 
'  What  I  say  ;  you  have  got  a  Due  d'Aumont  who 
very  insignificant  part  He  is  only  a  kind  of 
:  newsman.  Why  not  put  a  little  abbe  in  his 
(.-?'  'Admirable,'  exclaims  Scribe,  'that  will  be 
a  genuii  ;itury  figure.  An  actress,  a 

princess,    a    military    hero,    and    an    abbe;    n<>\\     the 

is  complete.'     And    in    fact,  that   one    n 
introduced   into    the   action,   modified    all    «>ur    lighter 

,allantry,'cvci\  tl  .:ned 

a  different    complexion    when    tl. 


252  .V ivt_  r    }'<-<!> -s  of  Recollections 

from  his  lips,  and  he  ran  and  fluttered  and  buzzed 
throughout  the  piece  like  some  winged  creature. 
1  You  are  entitled  to  author's  fees,'  we  said  to 
Maherault,  laughing. 

The  cause  of  Maherault's  thorough  knowledge  of 
scenic  conditions  was  his  inordinate  love  of  the  drama. 
As  I  have  said,  he  had  commenced  going  to  the  play 
when  he  was  two  years  old,  and  he  still  went  at 
eighty.  Scribe  had  had  him  put  on  the  permanent 
and  *  first  night '  free-list  everywhere  and  he  was  to 
be  seen  everywhere,  operas,  comedies,  farces,  melo- 
dramas, scratch  performances,  rehearsals,  he  never 
missed  anything.  He  always  arrived  before  the  lever 
de  rideau.  When  he  went  to  the  theatre,  the  dinner 
at  his  house  was  earlier  than  usual,  lest  he  should  miss 
a  scene.  One  day,  while  they  were  rehearsing  a  piece 
of  his  son-in-law's,  M.  de  Najac,  Mahe"rault  was  eighty- 
two  then,  he  jumped  over  a  seat  so  lightly  that  M. 
Saint-Germain  who  is  as  sprightly  in  ordinary  con- 
versation as  he  is  on  the  stage,  said  to  the  author :  *  I 
have  just  noticed  your  young  pickle  of  a  father-in-law 
jumping  from  the  pit  into  the  stalls.'  Towards  his 
latter  days,  his  doctor  having  forbidden  him  to  leave 
home  unless  the  weather  was  favourable,  his  son-in- 
law  was  bound  to  come  to  his  room  after  every 
premiere,  no  matter  how  late,  and  to  give  him  full 
particulars  of  the  performance ;  he  would  not  wait 
until  next  morning. 

Assuredly  it  was  not   his    physical    strength   that 


]'t'tirs  of  Recollections  253 

kept  him  young  in  body  as  well  as  in  mind  until  the 
last  moments  of  his  life.  He  had  just  sufficient 
muscular  substance  to  carry  him  through,  it  was  a 
second  passion  which  often  proved  but  one  and  the 
same  with  the  first,  a  passion  as  healthy  and  ardent 
as  that  of  the  sportsman,  the  passion  of  the  art 

collector. 

Ill 

Art  collectors  who  are  millionaires  have  no  doubt  a 
claim  to  the  world's  consideration  ;  I  have  known 
some  very  able  connoisseurs  among  them,  but  they 
always  lack  the  two  great  marks  of  the  collector, 
they  are  not  called  upon  to  make  sacrifices  and  to 
give  themselves  trouble.  With  them  it  is  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  only  a  question  of  vanity.  They  as 
it  were  commission  someone  else  to  have  taste  for 
them,  they  find  the  money  and  on  the  strength  of 
their  representative's  knowledge  they  are  promoted 
to  the  noble  rank  of  amateurs.  But  to  ferret  out  bit 
by  bit  and  in  the  course  of  many  years,  a  collection  of 
tic  objects  which  constitutes  in  itself  a  work  of 
art,  to  discover  what  was  unknown,  to  appreciate  at  its 
tistic  value  what  had  been  misjudged,  to 
•tten  talent,  t< >  itate  the 

art    productions   of  a  whole   period,  to   be   running 

hither  and  thither,  to   compare,  to  take  counsel,   to 

part    of  one's    well     earned     rest,    to    stint 

in     one's    ban  is,    to    do    all 

this   in    order    to    get    together,    after    forty 


ty    Ycdrs  of  Recollections 

hard  work,  as  did  M.  Sauvageot  for  instance,  a  col- 
lection worth  several  hundred  thousand  francs  out  of 
a  \ varly  salary  which  never  exceeded  four  thousand, 
that's  what  I  would  call  science,  patience,  and  pas- 
sionate love  and  taste  for  art.  And  Maherault  who 
throughout  his  life  had  never  anything  but  his 
government  place  to  depend  on  has  left  an  altogether 
rare  collection  of  drawings,  prints  and  engravings  of 
the  eighteenth  century.  That  was  the  period  he 
had  selected  as  his  domain  in  which  he  took  up  a 
distinctly  separate,  albeit  small  space,  namely,  in 
everything  that  bore  upon  the  drama. 

It  was  he  who  designed  for  the  magnificent  col- 
lection of  stage  dresses  by  Martinet  fifty  or  sixty 
portraits  of  the  principal  Paris  artists  in  their  best 
parts,  for  he  drew  very  well,  and  among  his  papers, 
I  find  the  following  charming  note : — 

'MY   DRAWINGS   IN   SEPIA 

'  The  scene  of  the  Armchair  from  "  Le  Mariage  de  Figaro."  Scene 
from  4th  Act  of  Chenier's  u  Henry  VIII."  Scene  from  4th  Act  of 
Ch^nier's  "Charles  IX."  Scene  from  2nd  Act  of  Legouve"'s  "  Mort 
de  Henri  IV."' 

And  at  the  end  of  the  notes  I  find  the  price  put 
upon  the  drawings  by  Maherault  : — 

'CHARLES  IX,  25  francs. 
•PHILIPPE  II,  25  francs. 
'HENRI  IV,  25  francs' 

Total  75  francs.  Not  a  very  high  figure,  but  how 
eloquent  in  its  very  modesty  ;  how  well  it  shows  us 
the  saving  penny  by  penny  of  the  poor  collector 


.S'/.r/r    }'t'tirs  of  Recollections 

No  doubt,  Maherault  must  have  thought  it  hard  to 
sell  his  personal  work  at  such  low  prices,  but  equally 
no  doubt,  he  was  watching  for  the  opportunity  of 
purchasing  the  work  of  someone  else  and  those  75 
francs  filled  him  with  joy  for  they  enabled  him  to 
buy  the  drawing  of  some  master  which  may  be  worth 
300  francs  to-day.  Heaven  alone  knows  how  many 
times  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Sardou  at 
the  dealers'  in  eighteenth  century  prints.  He  knew 
every  amateur,  he  had  turned  over  every  portfolio  of 
value,  he  studied  and  annotated  every  catalogue,  he 
attended  every  sale.  One  ran  against  him  in  every 
nook  and  corner  of  Paris,  hurrying  along,  pale,  tall, 
thin,  with  his  white  beard  gleaming,  his  near-sighted 

peering  into  every  shop  window,  his  coat  partly 
buttoned,  the  whole  man  looking  like  one  of  the 
n  his  collection,  like  an  old  portrait  of 
some  forgotten  artist,  giving  one  the  impression  of 
some  oddity.  And  an  oddity  he  was,  assuredly. 
Perhaps  the  reader  would  like  to  know  the  dimly 
defined  idea  he  was  f«.r  ever  pursuing,  or,  rather,  the 

that  haunted   him  ;  well,  it  was  the  idea  of  the 
future  sale  of  his  collection. 

The  day  of  the  sale  of  his  collection  is  to  the  col- 

r  the  last  day  of  judgment.     That  day  virtually 
i mines  whether  he  is  to  be  classed  among   the 
connoisseurs  or  among  the  dupes.     That  da)*  just- 
or  condemns   the  sacrifices   he   has  made  in   the  in- 
dulgence of  his  passion.       For  the  collector  not  only 


256  .SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

stints  himself;  I  have  known  some  (though  Mah£- 
rault  was  not  of  the  number)  who,  in  order  to  increase 
their  collection  have  grudged  their  families  their  daily 
food;  they  stifle  the  still  small  voice  of  their  con- 
science with  the  excuse  that  at  the  sale  their  collec- 
tion— like  the  trusty  servant  of  the  gospel — will  remit 
to  their  heirs  ten  times  the  talents  with  which  it 
had  been  entrusted.  Maherault  often  said  to  his 
daughter :  *  I  hope  to  leave  you  a  "  magnificent 
sale." ' 

The  sale  took  place  a  twelvemonth  after  his  death, 
I  fancy  that  on  that  day  the  shade  of  Maherault 
which  must  be  diaphanous  indeed,  if  our  shade  re- 
semble our  body,  must  have  found  means  to  slip  into 
that  auction  room,  in  which  he  spent  so  many  hours 
of  his  life  and  have  quivered  with  pride  and  joy  when 
it  heard  the  auctioneer  state  the  splendid  total  of 
the  proceeds — four  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand 
francs.  Thus,  '  if  after  death  shades  feel,'  it  must 
have  been  one  of  his  red  letter  days  in  Paradise. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Portrait  Gallery  continued. — M.  Etienne  de  Jouy,  the  Father  of 
the  Parisian  Chronique. — The  Salon  of  M.  de  Jouy. — M.  de  Jouy 
as  a  Benedict. — Mdlle.  de  Jouy,  afterwards  Mme.  Boudonville. — 
M.  de  Jouy's  Guests. — M.  de  Jouy's  Talent  for  Parody. — M.  de 
Jouy  as  a  Librettist  and  Dramatist. — A  Glimpse  of  Talma. — The 
Libretto  of  '  La  Vestale.' — A  First  Glimpse  of  Meyerbeer. — The 
Libretto  of  'Guillaume  Tell'  suggested  by  Mme.  Boudonville. — 
Intended  for  Meyerbeer  —A  Silhouette  of  Rossini, 

I 

DURING  the  greater  part  of  Louis-Philippe's  reign, 
the  two  rival  schools  of  French  literature  had  virtu- 
ally selected  two  drawing-rooms  as  their  respective 
headquarters  ;  those  of  M.  Nodier  and  of  M.  de  Jouy. 
Tlu-M-  t\v»>  names  may  be  taken  as  the  two  standards 
under  which  the  opposing  factions  fought.  I  was 
a  frequent  visitor  to  both  these  centres,  but  so  much 
has  been  written  about  that  presided  over  by  M. 
Nodier  that  I  will  only  speak  about  M.  de  Jouy's.  I 
have  met  many  interesting  personages  there,  one  of 
the  most  curious  was  undoubtedly  the  host  himself. 

A  few  years  before  the  great  revolution,  M.  de  Jouy 
began  life  as  ;i  '  middy  '  in  the  King's  navy  and  took 
part  in  several  naval  engagements  against  the  English, 

VOL.    I!  K 


2 ;  S  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

losing  two  fingers  in  one  of  these,  the  name  of  which 
I  forget.  If  at  that  time  someone  had  told  him  that 
one  day  he  would  be  a  famous  litterateur^  poet  and 
member  of  the  Academie-Frangaise,  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  greatly  surprised.  At  that  period 
he  was  a  handsome,  brave,  and  somewhat  foolhardy 
young  fellow,  a  kind  of  eighteenth  century  d'Ar- 
tagnon,  tall,  robust,  with  charming  features,  a  quan- 
tity of  fair  hair,  drooping  in  wild,  unkempt  locks  on 
his  shoulders,  a  pair  of  magnificent,  large  blue  eyes, 
a  mobile  mouth,  an  inexhaustible  flow  of  animal 
spirits,  and  in  excellent  health.  The  world  smiled  on 
him,  and  he  smiled  on  the  world.  Literature  and 
poetry  occupied  but  a  small  space  in  his  mental  ex- 
istence, his  whole  library  consisted  of  a  small  volume 
of '  Horace  '  from  which  he  quoted  constantly,  and  of 
one  book  of  Voltaire's  which  he  carried  upon  his 
person.  When  he  came  to  Paris,  he  made  his  debut 
in  literature  as  a  general  opens  a  battle,  by  two 
cannon  shots,  the  libretto  of  '  La  Vestale '  first, 
then  later  on  '  L'Ermite  de  la  Chauss£e  d'Antin.' 
As  far  as  the  latter  went,  everything  about  it  was 
positively  new,  its  form,  its  title,  its  subject,  and  its 
author.  In  his  capacity  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
addicted  to  its  pleasures,  as  a  brilliant  and  somewhat 
pugnacious  talker  he  recorded  the  incidents  of  his 
daily  life  while  recording  the  daily  existence  of  the 
big  city.  What  we  call  '  Parisianism,'  took  its  start 
with  '  L'Ermite  de  la  Chausse'e-d'Antin.'  The  school 


.'y   Years  of  Recollections  259 

of  the  modern  chronique  (causerie^  gossip,  table-talk, 
call   it  what  you  will),  sprang  from  '  L'Ermite  de  la 
Chaussee-d'Antin.'    This  or  that  chapter  of 'L'Ermite' 
would  make  an   admirable   comedy   in   itself.      '  Le 
1'arrain  '  of  Scribe  is  taken  from  a  page  of  '  L'Ermite.' 
One   of  the  most   remarkable  scenes  of  '  Les   Faux 
Bonshommes  '  (Barriere's),  I  mean  the  scene  of  the 
imaginary  castles  (chdteaux  en  Espagne,  castles  in  the 
air)   enacted  by  the  husband  a  propos  of  the  death 
of  his  wife  is  borrowed  from  '  L'Ermite  de  la  Chausse"e- 
d'Antin.'     The  most  curious  fact,  though,  in  connec- 
tion with  all  this  was  that  in  a  little  while  the  author 
and  his  work  became,  as  it  were,  one.     People  called 
him  the  'Hermit,'  he  accepted  the  title  and  with  it 
the  part  to  a  certain  extent.     Being  the  owner  of  a 
small  dwelling-house  in   the   Rue  des  Trois   Freres, 
(actually  a  part  of  the  Rue  Taitbout),  he  conceived 
the  idea  of  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a  hermitage. 
He  built  a  tiny  chapel  in  his  little  garden.     Truly  the 
divinity  inhabiting  that  chapel  was  Voltaire  and  he, 
M.  <le  Jouy,  was  the  officiating  priest.     His  dressing 
gown  was  a  monk's  frock,  the  belt  a  rope.     The  way 
to  his  study  was  by  a  steep,  winding  staircase,  the 
'  bannister '  of  which  was  also  a  rope,  in  this  instance 
knitted.      In   addition    to    this,  M.   de  Jouy,  thoi 
still  young  'doubled  '  the  two  parts  of  the  proverbial 
(-har.u  trr,    he    remained    a    devil,    while    becoming    a 

lit.* 
*  There  is  a  French  proverb  to  the  effect  that  when  the  devil  gets 


260  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

(  The  salon  of  M.  de  Jouy '  is  the  first  line  of  the 
synopsis  of  this  chapter.  M.  de  Jouy  had,  in  fact,  a 
salon,  which  in  the  literary  acceptation  of  the  term,  it 
is  a  rare  and  difficult  thing  to  have.  It  is  not  given 
to  everyone  to  have  a  salon,  however  rich,  powerful 
and  aristocratic  he  may  be.  The  first  and  foremost 
requisite  in  a  salon  is  a  woman  to  enact  the  hostess. 
Now,  it  so  happened  that  M.  de  Jouy,  though 
married,  had  no  wife.  He  was  too  fond  of  other 
men's  wives  to  have  remained  attached  for  any  length 
of  time  to  his  own.  Shortly  after  his  marriage  with 
a  young  English  girl,  of  very  high  birth  and  of  a 
distinctly  original  turn  of  intellect,  there  was  a  separa- 
tion. I  am  afraid  I  have  used  the  wrong  word  ;  for 
there  was  neither  separation  nor  scandal.  The  tie 
was  not  severed,  it  was  simply  unfastened.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  grievance  against  the  wife  ;  there 
was  no  serious  cause  of  reproach  against  the  husband, 
unless  it  was  that  he  gradually  lost  the  habit  of  going 
home.  Luckily  the  union,  though  short,  had  borne 
fruit  :  a  daughter,  who  was  brought  up  by  her  mother 
until  she  was  sixteen.  But  she  often  saw  her  father, 
she  worshipped  both  her  parents  and  bore  a  remark- 
able likeness  to  both.  She  had  in  addition  to  the 
mother's  refined  heart  and  lofty  sentiments,  the 
brilliancy  and  lively  temperament  of  the  father  and 
these  qualities,  enhanced  by  that  strong  moral  sense 

old,  he  becomes  a  hermit.    Everyone  knows  the  English  version  :  When 
the  devil  was  sick,  etc. — TR. 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  261 

which  often  forces  itself  upon  young  people  placed  in 
difficult  situations,  had  made  her  a  charming  and 
altogether  individual  woman.  Throughout  her  life 
she  endeavoured,  not  to  reunite  those  who  were 
parted,  their  utter  dissimilarity  of  character  effectu- 
ally forbade  such  an  attempt,  but  to  bring  them 
more  or  less  together. 

M.  de  Jouy  willingly  lent  himself  to  the  idea,  for 
his  position  as  a  man  separated  from  his  wife  affected 
him  no  more  seriously  than  his  position  as  a  married 
man.  Wedlock  had  been  such  a  trivial  thing  with 
him,  that  he  failed  to  regard  it  as  a  chain,  let  alone  as 
a  sacrament.  I  remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  his 
saying  to  me  in  connection  with  'Louise  de  Lignerolles,' 
in  which  I  had  attempted  to  depict  the  often  terrible 
consequences  of  the  husband's  adultery :  '  But  my 
dear  boy,  all  this  is  simply  so  much  nonsense.  Who, 
in  the  name  of  all  that's  good,  gave  you  the  idea  of 
building  five  acts  and  a  tragic  catastrophe  on  the 
ulillo  of  a  husband  who  happens  to  have  a 
mistress.  You  are  assuredly  not  under  the  impression 
that  you  are  going  to  draw  tears  from  anyone  with 
that  kind  of  thing?' 

When  his  daughter  was  sixUvn,  she  returned  to  his 
roof  and  kept  house  for  him.     It  was  not  an  easy  task. 
The  reader  has  heard  of  the  sentence  Mme.  Nc 
the  wife  of  the  austere  Minister,  wrote  in  her  po 
book  :  '  Not  to  forget  to  re-compliment  M.  Thomas' 


262  Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

on  his  '  PetnHde.'  *  M.  de  Jouy's  gatherings  were  not 
altogether  made  up  of  people  who  had  constantly  to 
be  '  re-complimented,'  namely,  poets  and  litterateurs. 
There  were  a  good  many  orators  and  political  men, 
such  as  Manuel,  Benjamin  Constant,  the  latter  with 
his  fair  hair,  and  German-student  look,  flitting  from 
group  to  group,  and  scattering  his  brilliant  paradoxes 
broadcast.  Added  to  these  came  the  beauties  of  the 
Restoration  and  the  Monarchy  of  July,  such  as  Mme. 
Sampayo,  Mme.  de  Vatry,  Mme.  Friant,  '  sailing 
through  the  dazzling  halls,  their  brows  bedecked 
with  flowers,'  as  the  poet  says.  There  was,  further- 
more, a  crowd  of  foreigners  of  both  sexes,  attracted 
thither  by  the  great  reputation  of  the  host.  On  one 
or  two  occasions  I  met  Rostopchine  there,  and  heard 
him  talk.  Well,  M.  de  Jouy's  daughter,  married  to  a 
young  and  charming  staff-officer,  M.  Boudonville, 
steered  her  course  amidst  all  these  celebrities,  careful 
of  their  susceptibilities,  of  their  jealousy  of  one 
another,  without  giving  umbrage  to  anyone,  without 
committing  a  single  blunder  or  mistake.  She  con- 
stantly reminded  me  of  those  skilful  gondoliers,  glid- 
ing so  deftly  and  gracefully  through  the  network  of 
the  canals  in  Venice.  Her  father's  jovial,  cordial  and 
spontaneous  temperament  provided  the  lighter  notes 
in  the  entertainment.  His  was,  no  doubt,  the  liveliest 
imagination  I  have  ever  known.  Conversation  meant 

*  The  original  word  is  relouer,  which  is  as  questionable  French  as 
're-compliment,'  is  que;tionable_English.— TK. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  263 

to  him  what  champagne  means  to  other  people.  It 
stimulated,  nay,  intoxicated  him.  Towards  midnight, 
he  took  the  conversational  bit  between  his  teeth,  and 
the  drollest  conceits  followed  one  another  like  rockets 
at  a  display  of  fireworks.  One  evening  the  conversa- 
tion turned  on  Victor  Hugo  whom  he  detested,  and 
forthwith  he  gave  us  a  parody  of  '  Lucrece  Borgia,' 
which  as  a  side-splitting  burlesque  surpassed  by  far 
that  of  '  L'Harnali,  ou  la  Contrainte  par  cor,'  by 
Duvert  and  Lauzanne.*  Being  such  a  fire  eater  as  to 
stutter  and  stammer  in  his  excitement,  M.  de  Jouy's 
bursts  of  anger  became  positively  comic.  The  slightest 
attempt  to  criticise  one  of  his  favourites,  to  question 
this  or  that  lofty  idea,  to  defend  this  or  that  platitude, 
called  forth  a  torrent  of  exaggerated  language  which 
istibly  reminded  one  of  Alceste.  f  And  people 
,hed  at  him  as  they  laugh  at  Alceste,  they  liked 
him  as  they  like  Alceste ;  he  virtually  showed  me 
how  the  part  of  Alceste  should  be  enacted  so  as  to 
be  comic  throughout  while  never  ceasing  to  be  sym- 
pathetic. I  remember  a  remark  of  his  which  is  thor- 
oughly characteristic  of  the  spontaneity  of  his  mind. 
1  Ie  was  sitting  on  a  small  couch  between  his  daughter 
and  a  foreign  guest  who  was  overwhelming  him  with 

*  The  title  of  this  burlesque  is  in  itself  a  burlesque.  I  will  en- 
deavour to  explain  it  to  the  reader,  th«-u-li  I  am  by  no  means  sure  of 
succec  ill1  which  stands  lor  '  Ik-mani*  is  a  corruption 

of  '  I'hallali,'  the  'death 'sounded  by  the  Fremh  huntsman.    •  ('»nirainte 
par  cor*  may  mean  imprisonment  for  debt  (contrainte  par  corps),  suffer* 
ing  from  a  corn,  or  coercion  by  means  of  a  hunt: 
knows  the  important  part  the  hunting-horn  plays  in  '  Hernani.'-  ! 

Here's  Alceste  in  '  Le  Misanthrope.'- 


264  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

hyperbolical  compliments.  *  Do  you  hear  what  this 
gentleman  says  of  me,  my  dear  ? '  he  laughed.  *  Well, 
he  does  not  express  by  a  hundredth  part  what  I  think 
on  the  subject.' 

The  literary  life  of  M.  de  Jouy  may  be  summed  up 
by  three  dates,  which  again  may  be  summed  by  three 
names :  '  La  Vestale,'  '  L'Ermite  de  la  Chaussee 
d'Antin  '  and  '  Sylla.' 

'Sylla 'was  one  of  the  most  startling  successes  of 
the  century.     It  has  been  asserted  that  the  success 
was  entirely  due  to  a  wig,  because  Talma  appeared  in 
it  with  the  Napoleonic  lock  on  his  forehead.     Those 
detractors    had    best    be    referred    to   the   words  of 
Alexandre  Dumas,  who  without  being  compelled  by 
the  least  official  mission  made  the  journey  from  Paris 
to  Saint-Germain  on  the  day  of  M.  de  Jouy's  funeral, 
in  order  to  sing  the  praises  of  the  bold  novelty  of 
the  fifth  act  of  that  play  on  the  author's  grave.     To 
this  eulogy  I  would  like  to  add  two  significant  traits 
of  Talma's  talent.     The  fourth  act  was  founded  on  a 
scene  which  inspired  both  the  author  and  actor  with 
great  hopes,  while  at  the  same  time  they  were  greatly 
afraid  of  it.     Sylla  falls  asleep,  and  in  the  midst  of  his 
slumbers  his  victims  are  supposed  to  uprise   before 
him    like   the    terrible    phantoms    of    Shakespeare's 
*  Richard  1 1 1.'      It  was  expected  that  this  '  somnambu- 
lism of  remorse  '  would  be  productive  of  an  enormous 
effect  as  enacted  by  Talma.     But  a  great  practical 
difficulty  attended  with  great  danger  presented  itself. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  265 

How  should  Sylla  fall  asleep  ?  The  supposed  dif- 
ficulty would  provoke  a  smile  nowadays,  but  at  that 
time  the  question  was  a  grave  one.  Was  he  to  fall 
asleep  in  a  chair  ?  Under  such  conditions  the  effect 
would  be  lost.  Was  he  to  fall  asleep  on  a  bed  ?  In 
that  case  he  would  have  had  to  lie  down  before  the 
public,  and  how  could  he  risk  doing  such  a  thing  ? 
That  an  actor  should  deliver  his  lines  seated  or  walk- 
ing up  and  down  was  admissible,  but  lying  down. 
Heaven  forfend  the  thought,  it  would  show  a  posi- 
tive disrespect  to  the  public.  Talma  was  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement  Fortunately,  he  was  not  the 
man  to  give  in  easily  when  he  fancied  he  had  got 
hold  of  a  tremendous  effect,  so  he  bravely  has  a 
couch  placed  on  the  stage,  and  when  the  terrible 
scene  draws  nigh,  seats  himself  on  it  in  a  careless, 
matter-of-course  way.  Then  he  delivers  his  first  lines, 
his  hands  resting  on  his  knees.  At  the  next  few  lines 
he  lifts  one  of  his  arms,  extends  one  of  his  legs  and 
puts  it,  without  seeming  to  pay  attention  to  it,  on  the 
bed.  He  goes  on  speaking  while  stretching  it  at  full 
th,  the  other  leg  follows  suit,  his  body  gradually 
leans  back,  his  head  finally  reclines  on  the  pillow  and 
Sylla  is  asleep,  without  the  public  having  noticed 
were,  that  he  was 'going  to  bed.'  How  skilful 
one  had  to  be  in  those  days  in  order  to  be  bold. 

I  feel  reluctant  to  dismiss  the  piece  without  record- 
ing  another  stroke  of  genius  in  Talma's  'by-play/ 
In  the  third  act  there  is  a  very  magnificent  » 


266  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

whore  the  dictator,  surrounded  by  his  courtiers,  is 
reminded  of  the  people  who  are  being  butchered  out- 
side by  heartrending  and  hostile  cries.  Immediately 
afterwards  one  of  the  crowd  rushes  on  to  the  stage 
and  makes  straight  for  Sylla,  exclaiming  : 

1  Combien  en  proscris  tu,  Sylla  ? ' 
1  Je  ne  sais  pas  ' 

is  the  answer. 

The  reply  befits  the  author  of  the  Cornelian  Laws, 
and  Talma  according  to  his  inspiration,  the  tone  of 
the  man  of  the  crowd,  the  countenances  of  his 
courtiers,  uttered  that  terrible  sentence  in  different 
fashions.  On  some  nights  he  merely  allowed  it  to 
drop  negligently  from  his  lips,  superciliously,  as  if 
paying  no  attention  whatsoever  to  his  words  and  pro- 
ducing in  that  way  a  horrible  contrast  to  the  fury  of 
his  interlocutor.  On  others,  he  would  hiss  the 
phrase  at  him  like  a  wild  beast  and  with  such  violence 
as  to  terrify  his  audience.  He  was  a  great  genius 
indeed.  It  was  not  a  successthe  actor  scored,  it  was  a 
genuine  triumph.  Let  me  hasten  to  add,  for  the  sake 
of  the  author,  that  from  that  day  forward,  M.  de  Jouy 
ceased  to  be  '  L'Ermite '  to  become  *  the  author  of 

"  Sylla." ' 

II 

The  libretto  of '  La  Vestale '  had  raised  M.  de  Jouy 
to  the  position  of  our  foremost  lyrical  poet  and 
procured  him  the  patronage  of  the  men  whom  I  con- 
sider the  most  wretched  in  creation,  the  dramatic 


.;:•    Years  of  Recollections  267 

composers.  Can  the  reader  imagine  a  more  terrible 
martyrdom  than  that  of  a  Jupiter  with  a  Minerva  in 
his  head  or  brain  and  no  axe  or  hatchet  at  hand  to 
deliver  him.  The  operatic  composer  is  in  a  still 
worse  plight.  Not  only  can  he  not  bring  forth  by 
himself,  but  he  cannot  conceive  by  himself.  His 
brain  may  be  teeming  with  grandiose,  striking  ideas, 
quivering  with  life;  they  are  cursed  with  barrenness 
unless  he  find  what  we  term  a  poet  to  embody  them. 
Consequently  M.  de  Jouy  was  positively  besieged  by 
th«  .sc  unhappy  petitioners  in  quest  of  a  libretto.  One 
day  a  young  fellow,  of  a  distinctly  Jewish  cast  of 
countenance,  below  the  middle  height,  dressed  in  very 
good  taste,  with  excellent  though  reserved  manners, 
and  the  address  of  a  gentleman  calls  upon  him.  He 
is  the  bearer  of  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Spontini, 
his  name  is  Meyerbeer,  he  is  the  composer  of  several 
Italian  operas,  among  others  the  '  Crociato,'  and 
anxious  to  write  for  the  Paris  Ope>a.  Spontini  has 
recommended  him  to  his  librettist  as  a  musician  of 
great  promise.  Mme.  Boudonville  was  working  in 
study,  seated  near  the  window  looking 
out  upon  the  garden.  The  poet  and  the  musician 
begin  to  talk,  various  subjects,  names  and  titles  are 
<1  one  after  another,  some  are  received  with 
more  or  less  favour,  others  are  scornfully  rejected, 
when  all  at  once  Mme.  Boudonville  who  had,  up  till 
then,  been  listening  without  saying  a  word,  timidly 
in  the  conversation.  'I  fancy,'  she  says,  '  that 


268  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

the  story  of  Guillaume  Tell  would  make  a  capital 
subject  for  a  libretto.  He  combines  all  the  necessary 
features,  he  is  a  grand  character,  he  is  the  hero  of  a 
very  interesting  situation  ;  his  surroundings  would 
furnish  a  very  excellent  local  picture.'  '  Bravo,' 
exclaims  M.  de  Jouy.  '  Admirable,'  adds  Meyerbeer, 
and  there  and  then  the  plan  is  drawn  out,  the  out- 
lines of  the  principal  characters  put  in,  etc.,  etc. 

And  now,  how  did  it  happen  that  Rossini  composed 
the  music  of  Guillaume  Tell,'  and  that  Meyerbeer  did 
not  compose  it  ?  I  am  unable  to  tell,  nevertheless,  I 
am  thankful  to  Chance  or  Fate,  seeing  that  to  it  we 
owe  the  masterpiece  of  modern  music.  Nowadays 
the  libretto  of  '  Guillaume  Tell '  is  very  severely 
handled,  the  verses  are  constantly  being  ridiculed,  but 
I  never  heard  anyone  make  greater  sport  of  them 
than  M.  de  ijouy  himself.  '  My  dear  Jouy,'  said 
Rossini  to  him  one  day,  '  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to 
change  a  word  in  the  chorus  that  accompanies  Mdlle. 
Taglioni's  dance.  You  wrote — 

'"Toi  que  1'aiglon  ne  suivrait  pas."' 
(Thou  whom  the  eaglet  would  not  follow.') 

'  I  have  put  instead — 

"Toi  que  1'oiseau  ne  suivrait  pas.'" 
('Thou  whom  the  bird  would  not  follow.') 

'  And  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  doing  it,'  ex- 
claims M.  de  Jouy.  'The  eaglet  does  convey  the 
idea  of  a  dancing  bird,  does  it  not  ? '  '  Then  why 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  269 

did  you  put  that  eaglet  there  ? '  asked  Rossini,  laugh- 
in-.  '  I  didn't  put  it  there,  it's  that  idiot  of  a 
Hippolyte  Bis,'  says  M.  de  Jouy.  '  Then  why  did 
you  take  that  idiot  of  a  Hippolyte  Bis  for  your 
collaborateur? '  inquires  Rossini,  laughing  louder  than 
ever.  '  Why,  why  ?  Because  I  am  a  good-natured 
idiot  myself,  who  does  not  know  his  own  mind.  I 
was  told  that  he  is  poor,  but  clever,  that  he  had 
written  a  tragedy  on  Attila  which  was  performed  at 
the  Odeon.  ...  I  never  saw  his  tragedy,  but  they 
were  always  quoting  a  line  which  was  considered 
sublime : — 

4 "  Ses  regards  affames  devoraient  1'univers." ' 

those  confounded  "  hungry  looks "  that  have 
cd  all  the  mischief.  Hippolyte  Bis  called  me  a 
great  "poet,  after  that  I  became  like  a  bit  of  putty  in 
his  hands,  and  allowed  him  to  introduce  in  my  libretto 
a  lot  of  verses  which  will  be  a  standing  disgrace  to 
me  with  posterity  for  centuries  and  centuries.  For 
thru-  N  no  mistake  about  it,  thanks  to  you,  I  am 
immortal  and  while  tlu-iv  is  one  opera  left,  they'll  go 
on  singing  verses,  like  that  one — 

\ux  reptiles  je  I'abandonne 
leur  horrible  faim  lui  repoiul  d'un  tombeau."* 

4  And  to  think  that  I  ha\v  put  my  name  to  them. 
Oh,  the  brut 

All  th  ned  and  was  said  on  the  Boulevard 

Montmai  tiv  just  by  the  Passage  des  Panorama 


270  r    Years  of  Recollections 

we  happened  to  run  against  Rossini,  who  had  just 
come  from  home.  He  had  a  fortnight's  stubble  on 
his  chin.  '  You  are  looking  at  my  beard/  he  said. 
'  This  is  in  consequence  of  a  vow  I  made.  I  am  just 
finishing  my  orchestration,  and  lest  I  should  be 
tempted  to  go  out  to  dinner  or  an  "at  home,"  I 
have  taken  an  oath  not  to  shave  myself  until  my 
work  is  finished. 

'  Are  you  pleased  with  what  you  are  doing  ? '  asked 
M.  de  Jouy. 

*  It  isn't  bad/  he  replied  with  a  smile.  '  It's  Gluck, 
with  ideas  of  my  own.  My  chief  exertions  bear  on 
the  recitatives  and  basses.  You  had  better  notice  the 
ballet  music  also,  it  is  somewhat  sad,  as  befits  a  people 
in  that  position.  But  you  may  make  your  mind  easy, 
friend  Jouy.  There  are  perhaps  a  few  verses  that  are 
bad,  but  the  libretto  is  all  right,  and  I  trust  I  shall 
not  spoil  it.' 

The  result  is  known  to  everyone.  On  the  first 
night  the  overture  met  with  a  tremendous  success 
The  first  act  also  produced  a  great  effect,  and  the 
second  was  simply  one  long  triumph  from  beginning 
to  end.  The  third  and  fourth  acts  met  with  a  some- 
what chilling  reception,  and  on  entering  M.  de  Jouy's 
drawing-room  at  midnight,  Rossini  said,  '  It  is  a  quasi 
fiasco* 

The  life  that  had  began  so  brilliantly  ended 
placidly  and  sweetly,  though  somewhat  sadly.  Dur- 
ing his  latter  years,  when  he  was  already  very  old 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  271 

M.  de  Jouy  lost  the  use  of  his  legs,  his  imagination 
forsook  him  and  even  his  intellect  became  clouded.* 
Well,  a  strange  thing  happened,  which  proves  that 
our  dominant  faculties  die  last  within  us  and  remain 
standing  amidst  the  ruins  of  our  organisation  like  a 
column  amidst  the  wreck  of  an  overtoppled  temple. 
Kven  when  his  reason  was  partly  gone,  the  fast 
gathering  darkness  was  lighted  up  now  and  again  by  a 
sudden  flash  of  wit.  One  day,  during  one  of  his  usual 
outbursts  of  temper,  for,  alas  our  defects  as  well  as 
our  good  qualities  adhere  to  us — he  suddenly  pushed 
his  daughter  away  from  him,  saying,  '  Go  to  the 
devil.'  .  .  .  Then  he  added  all  of  a  sudden  and  with 
a  charming  smile,  '  Don't  trouble  yourself,  he  would 
not  take  you.' 

I  have  seen  few  more  touching  sights  than  that  of 
that  father  and  daughter.  Their  parts  had  positively 
become  reversed.  He  had  become  her  child,  she  his 
mother.  She  chided  him,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
look,  a  gesture,  an  expression  of  his  face  showed  that 
he  was  conscious  of  that  reversal  of  parts,  and  that  he 
i-d  a  kind  of  gratification  from  it.  Instead  of 
feeling  humiliated,  he  seemed  to  be  lovingly  affected 
by  it  His  son-in-law  had  been  appointed  governor 
of  the  castle  of  Saint-Germain,  and  it  comforted  the 
old  man  to  end  his  days  in  that  splendid  historical 
dwelling.  It  afforded  him  an  unexpected  pleasure  on 
the  Sundays  and  holidays;  his  roomy  armchair  was 
*  M.  dc  Jouy  died  in  1846  at  the  age  of  eighty-two— TK. 


272  ;;•    Years  of  Recollections 

taken  to  the  magnificent  circular  balcony  with  its 
superb  forged  iron  railing.  Wrapped  in  an  ample 
dressing  gown,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  large  open 
square,  he  sat  watching  the  arrival  of  the  young 
couples  and  joyous  groups  that  had  come  to  spend 
their  leisure  day  in  the  country  ;  he  rarely  took  his 
eyes  off  them  as,  amidst  loud  laughter,  they  made 
their  way  to  the  rustic  drinking  shops,  the  small 
restaurants  and  tiny  theatre  ;  he  tried  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  them  as  they  rested  beneath  the  spreading  branches 
of  the  natural  arbours,  he  strained  his  ears  to  catch 
snatches  of  their  songs,  resounding  through  the  open 
windows,  and  at  such  times  there  was  a  momentary 
gleam  of  youth  and  gaiety  on  the  withered,  wrinkled 
features.  The  fast  waning  imagination  had  conjured 
up,  for  an  instant  only,  one  of  the  chapters  of 
'  L'Ermite  de  la  Chauss^e-d'Antin.' 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Portrait  Gallery  continued. — Lamartine. — Lamartine's  Pride. — 
Hi-  Manias. — Lamartine's  opinion  of  himself  and  of  La  Fontaine. — 
His  opinion  of  Rossini. — Beranger's  opinion  of  one  of  Lamartine's 
Poems.  —  Lamartine's  kindness.  —  As  a  Statesman.  — His  first 
appearance  in  the  Chamber. — His  wonderful  capacity  for  grasping 
a  Subject. — His  hatred  of  the  Napoleonic  Legend. — His  Prophecy 
with  regard  to  the  ultimate  result  of  it. — Lamartine  and  an  Anecdote 
of  Turner,  the  Painter. — How  '  1'Histoire  des  Girondins'  was  com- 
posed.— Lamartine  goes  to  see  an  old  Member  of  the  Convention. — 
Lamartine's  Impecuniosity. — The  Revolution  of '48.— A  Glimpse  of 
a  Revolutionary. — Lamartine  at  the  Hotel-de-Ville. — Lamartine 
misjudged. — Madame  de  Lamartine. — Her  Devotion. — Lamartine's 
Funeral. 


I 


Tin-: UK  is  one  thing  which  has  never  failed  to  strike 
the  marvellous  instinct  of  the  public  in  recognis- 
ing genius  at  its  first  cry.     The  moment  the  man  of 
us  appears,  the  moment  he  speaks,  the  hearts  of 
all  go  out  to  him  and  proclaim  him  king.     It  would 
seem  as  if  all  his  future  achievements  are  written  be- 
forehand  in    what   he   has  just   accomplished.     The 
(lcl)Ut   contains,  as   it  were,  the  advance   .summary  of 
a  long  life  of  glory.     Apologising  for  the  comparison 

1  to  a  poet,  I  feel  inclined  to  say  that  it 
VOL     II  8 


274  .SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections 

is  the  splendour  of  a  magnificent  sunlit  day,  entirely 
foretold  in  the  first  ray  at  dawn. 

This  was  the  case  with  Lamartine.  '  Les  Medita- 
tions '  had  not  *  been  out '  four-and-twenty  hours,  and 
lo  and  behold,  by  some  nameless  phenomenon  of 
moral  electricity,  that  name,  unknown  the  day  before, 
was  already  on  everyone's  lips.  M.  de  Talleyrand 
himself,  startled  by  the  noise,  took  the  book  and  read 
it  from  beginning  to  end  in  a  few  hours  snatched 
from  sleep,  and  that  same  morning  he  wrote  to  one 
of  his  friends  :  '  Unto  us  a  poet  has  been  born  this 
night.' 

I  will  not  stop  to  analyse  the  numerous  poetical 
beauties  of  Lamartine's  works  ;  I  am  in  too  great  a 
hurry  to  come  to  the  man  to  linger  with  the  poet. 


Lamartine  has  been  too  often  accused  of  pride,  and 
in  support  of  the  accusation  people  always  quote  that 
famous  reply  of  his  to  a  father  who  had  taken  his  son 
to  see  him  :  '  Well,  Monsieur  de  Lamartine,  what  do 
you  think  of  my  young  fellow  ? '  '  He  was  not 
sufficiently  moved  at  the  sight  of  me,'  replied  the 
poet.  To  those  who  take  the  trouble  to  think,  and 
who  knew  Lamartine,  there  is  not  the  least  sign  of 
pride  in  this.  He  was  not  thinking  of  himself  when 
he  uttered  the  words,  he  was  thinking  of  some  great 
reputation.  He  would  have  never  said  what  he  did 
say  if  he  had  meant  to  apply  it  to  himself ;  in  apply- 


Years  of  Recollections  275 

ing  it  to  every  man  of  renown,  he  was  right,  and  more 
than  right.  A  young  man  incapable  of  admiration  is 
not  a  young  man.  Furthermore,  I  am  going  to  tell 
the  reader  something  which  will  astonish  him.  La- 
mart  ine  was  unpretending,  of  course  relatively  un- 
pretending. Some  of  his  pretensions  were,  to  say 
the  least,  very  odd  ;  for  instance,  he  thought  himself 
a  great  economist,  a  great  authority  on  wine  growing, 
and  a  great  architect.  '  Young  man/  he  said  one  day 
to  the  son  of  one  of  his  friends,  *  take  a  good  look  at 
me,  there,  just  at  the  forehead,  and  you'll  be  able  to 
say  to  yourself  that  you  have  seen  the  greatest  living 
authority  on  money  matters.'  Victor  Hugo's  fame  as 
a  poet  gave  him  not  the  least  concern,  but  he  envied 
M.  Duchatel  his  reputation  as  the  first  authority 
on  wine  growing.  '  He  is  only  an  amateur,'  he  said. 
'  I  am,  as  it  were,  a  piece  of  the  vineyards  on  our 
slopes.'  Finally,  every  visitor  to  Saint-Point  was 
taken  to  see  a  horrid  little  portico,  painted  in 
startling  colours,  and  made  up  of  two  columns 
in  heaven  alone  knows  what  style,  or  rather  belong- 
ing to  all  styles.  '  My  dear  fellow,'  he  used  to  say, 
'  half-a-century  hr  -pie  will  make  a  pilgrimage 

to  conn-  and  see  this.     My  poetry  will  be  forgotten, 

they  will  say,  "there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  the 
man  who  did  this  knew  how  to  build."'     To  believe 

self  clever  at  doing  things  of  which  one  has  not 
:,iry  notions  does   not    in   itself  con- 
stitute a   claim   to  originality,  hut   it   is  assuredly  an 


276  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

original  trait  in  a  man's  character  not  to  overrate  his 
talents  in  the  art  of  which  he  is  a  perfect  master,  and 
here  we  touch  upon  one  of  the  most  curious  sides  of 
this  very  complex  nature.  Modesty,  with  the  superior 
intellect  is,  after  all,  but  the  spirit  of  comparison. 
Well,  when  Lamartine  compared  himself  to  his  con- 
temporaries, he  considered  himself  very  great,  but 
when  he  compared  himself  to  geniuses  of  the  first 
water,  or  even  to  himself,  that  is,  when  he  drew  a 
parallel  between  what  he  had  done  and  what  he  might 
have  done,  he  was,  I  repeat,  modest.  One  day,  I 
ventured  to  say  to  him,  '  I  wish  you  to  explain  to  me 
a  fact  which  seems  to  defy  explanation  at  my  own 
hands  :  I  like  La  Fontaine's  verses  as  well  as  yours, 
I  have  an  equal  facility  for  learning  them  by  heart ; 
I  experience  an  equal  pleasure  in  repeating  them  to 
myself;  but  at  the  end  of  six  months  I  still  know  the 
verses  of  La  Fontaine  and  no  longer  know  yours. 
What  is  the  reason  ? '  'I  am  going  to  tell  you,'  he 
said.  '  La  Fontaine  writes  with  a  pen  and  even  with 
a  graving-tool,  I  write  with  a  brush ;  he  writes,  I 
merely  colour,  his  outlines  are  clearly  drawn,  mine 
are  vague ;  consequently  it  is  very  natural  that  his 
should  remain  stamped  on  the  memory  and  that 
mine  should  become  gradually  effaced.'  Struck  and 
moved  by  the  justice  and  simplicity  of  the  answer,  I 
went  on.  *  Nevertheless,'  I  said  in  a  tone  of  deep 
conviction,  'no  French  poet  has  been  more  richly 
endowed  than  you.  You  have  as  much  genius  as  the 


Si.rty    Years  of  Recollections  277 

gre'atest  among  them.'  '  It  may  be,'  he  replied  smil- 
but  I  have  not  as  much  talent ;  talent,  my  dear 
friend,  is  the  thing  acquired  by  work  and  will.  I 
have  never  worked,  and  I  cannot  correct.  Whenever 
I  have  tried  to  rewrite  some  verses,  I  have  only  made 
them  worse.  Just  compare  me  to  Victor  Hugo  as  a 
versifier,  why,  I  am  a  simple  learner  compared  to 
him.'  '  You  are  much  more  like  that  other  spoilt 
child  of  the  Muses,  and  who,  like  you,  never  knew 
what  it  is  to  make  an  effort  or  to  engage  in  a  struggle, 
and  who  produced  his  notes  in  the  same  way  you 
produce  your  verses,  I  mean  Rossini.'  '  Don't  put  me 
on  a  level  with  Rossini.  Rossini  has  produced  works. 
He  composed  "Guillaume  Tell,"  "Othello,"  "  Le 

».:er."  I  have  only  produced  essays.' 
He  did  not  exactly  mean  what  he  said,  he  perhaps 
counted  on  my  admiration  to  contradict  him,  and  he 
would  have  felt  greatly  astonished  if  I  had  taken  his 
definition  literally;  nevertheless,  behind  this  exaggera- 
tion of  terms  I  might  almost  say  of  blasphemy,  there 

a  true  and  sincere  to  borrow  the  clever 

>n  of  Cardinal  de  Ret/,  l.amartine  recognised 

the   fact   of  not    ha\  ,-n    his   worth    full    play. 

People  have  often  hinted  that  the  disdain  with  whirh 

poke  of  his  own  verses  was  only  so  much 
tation.    nothing    better    than    a   comedy.      No    man 
of  8   comedian   than    Lamartine.       A   diplo- 
mat .and   SO  at  times  as  to  be 
almost  I-                                             ;  id  ing  to  the  trick  of 


278  i     Years  of  Recollections 

vulgar  '  posing/  He  had  a  sincere  disdain  for  his 
poetical  grandeur,  because  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  poet 
very  superior  to  his  works,  and  above  all,  a  man 
very  superior  to  the  poet,  as  will  be  seen  directly. 
Hence  there  was  in  his  vanity  as  an  author  a  kind  of 
simplicity  and  unaffected  good  humour  which  added 
to  his  powers  of  fascination.  I  c«n  hear  him  ask  me, 
as  if  it  were  to-day :  '  Did  you  read  my  last  verses  in 
'  Le  Conseiller  du  Peuple  ?  "  *  No.'  '  Then  read  them, 
my  dear  fellow,  they  are  very  pretty.'  Then  correct- 
ing himself,  '  Well,  I  mean  rather  pretty.'  He  took 
his  own  measure,  he  judged  himself,  and  what  is  more 
rare,  he  allowed  others  to  judge  him.  Beranger  had 
become  very  enthusiastic  about  '  Jocelyn.'  *  My  dear 
friend,'  he  said  to  Lamartine,  '  it  is  a  masterpiece  of 
poesy,  emotion,  and  inspiration.'  Then  he  added  with 
a  mischievous  smile,  characteristic  of  him  :  '  But  what 
a  pity  about  those  three  or  four  hundred  lines  which 
you  gave  your  concierge  to  compose.'  What  did  La- 
martine do  ?  Laughed  ;  for  he  thought  the  criticism 
very  clever  and  amusing  and  went  repeating  it  every- 
where. That  is  very  unlike  the  *  genus  irritabile 
vatum!  There  never  was  in  fact,  an  instance  of  self- 
respect  less  irritable  and  less  prone  to  irritate.  All 
the  petty  passions  of  poets,  envy,  hatred,  vindictive- 
ness,  were  foreign  to  his  character.  He  proved  that 
well  enough  in  his  poetical  war  with  Barthelemy. 
The  poor  creature  had  held  him  up  to  public 
indignation,  to  scorn,  to  ridicule.  Well,  in  his  admir- 


.SY.r/r    )  \\irs  of  Recollections  279 

able  '  6pitre  a  Nemesis,'  Lamartine  could  never  rise 
to  anger  nor  descend  to  contempt,  he  stopped  at  mere 
disdain.  And  even  then,  as  if  the  feeling  were 
unbearable  to  him,  he  tears  himself  away  from  it,  he 
his  wings,  soars  beyond,  and  interrupting  his 
dithyrambic,  he  addresses  the  offender  in  words  of 
evangelic  kindness  and  forgiveness. — 

1  Un  jour,  de  nobles  pleurs  laveront  ce  delire, 
Et  ta  main  etouffant  le  son  qu'elle  a  tire", 
Plus  juste,  arrachera  des  cordes  de  ta  lyre 
La  corde  injurieuse  oil  la  haine  a  vibre*. 

4  Pour  raoi,  j'aurai  vide"  la  coupe  d'amertune 
Sans  que  ma  Ifcvre  meme  en  garde  un  souvenir, 
Car  mon  ame  est  un  feu  qui  brule  et  qui  parfume 
Ce  qu'on  jette  pour  la  ternir  ! ' 

i  I  ere  we  have  Lamartine  in  his  natural  grand 
attitude,  and  this  "  6pitre  a  Nemesis/  marking  as 
it  were  the  first  steps  of  the  poet  in  the  path  of 
public  affairs,  brings  me  naturally  to  the  orator  and 

to  the  statesman. 

II 

One  evening  in  the  last  years  of  his  life,  Lamartine 

ted  by  his  fireside,  his  head  reclining  on  his 

t,    in    that    somnolent   state  which  had    become 

habitual  with  him,  and  which  was  a  condition  between 

sleeping  and   dreaming.      A   couple  of  friends  were 

seated  not   far  away  from  him  and  talking  in  a  low 

voice.      The   co;  >:i    gradually    growing    more 

animated,  tl;  -usly  raised  the::  .  and 

the  1   to  the  otiu-r:      I    would    sooner  have 


280  T   Years  of  Recollections 

written  "  Les  Meditations  "  than  founded  the  Second 
Republic.'     Lamartine,   giving   a   big   yawn,   turned 
round  and   asked  :     '  What   were   you    saying,   dear 
friend  ? '     The  friend  slightly  correcting  the  sentence, 
replied  :  '  If  I   had  had  the  choice,  I   would  sooner 
have  written  "  Les    Meditations "  than  founded  the 
Second  Republic.'     '  Well,'  answered  Lamartine,  '  that 
proves  to  me  that  you  are  only  a  simpleton.'     With 
which  he  rose  from  his  chair  and  in  a  second  threw 
off  his  drowsiness.      '  Let  us  put  aside  my  own  indi- 
viduality, look  at  the  general  question,  and  judge  the 
immense  superiority  of  the  statesman  over  the  poet. 
The  one  racking  and  exhausting  his  brain  in  marshal- 
ling words  and  harmonising  sounds  ;  the  other,  being 
the  real  Word,  that  is  the  thought,  the  word  and  the 
act  in  one,  realising  what  the  poet  only  dreams,  seeing 
all  that  is  great  and  good  in  him  convert  itself  into 
facts  and  beneficent  facts,  into  beneficent  facts  which 
not  only  benefit  the  generations  present,  but  often 
extend    to    most   distant    posterity.     Do   you    know 
what  it  means  to  be  a  great  Statesman  ?     It  is  a  poet 
in  the  act  of  transforming  his  words  into  deeds.'     To 
act,  the  need  to  act,  the  hope  to  be  able  to  act  was 
in  fact,  the  constant  preoccupation  of  him  whom  the 
world  chooses  to  regard  as  a  mere  sublime  dreamer. 
His  most  ardent  admiration  was  reserved  for  Voltaire. 
And  the  reason  ?     '  Because,'  as  he  said,  '  there  is  not 
a  single  line  of  his  that  does  not  virtually  constitute 
an  act :  not  a  word  that  fell  from  his  pen  or  lips  that 


.<  of  Recollections  281 

did  not  play  its  part  in  public  affairs.  Voltaire  was 
for  forty  years  the  greatest  event  of  his  century. 
Hence  people  say  the  age  of  Voltaire,  as  they  say  the 
age  of  Louis  XIV,  and  the  age  of  Pericles.' 

To  complete  the  portrait.  One  day,  in  one  of  those 
rare  moments  of  effusion  in  which  he  showed  the 
whole  of  his  thoughts,  for  beneath  the  semblance  of 
spontaneity  and  candour,  he  was  very  secretive,  and 
perfectly  self-controlled,  keeping  in  his  inmost  soul 
certain  hidden  recesses  into  which  no  one,  not  he  him- 
self perhaps,  penetrated,  one  day  then,  he  exclaimed  : 
1  That  one  might  be  a  Napoleon,  less  the  sword  at  his 
side/  Here  we  have  the  thought  lying  deepest  in 
Lamartine's  heart.  To  rule  over  a  great  nation  by 
the  force  of  thought,  to  command  by  the  force  of 
intellect.  To  be  the  conqueror  of  his  epoch,  its  do- 
minant power  without  shedding  a  drop  of  blood,  and 
without  imposing  upon  men  any  other  yoke  than  that 
of  justice,  pity  and  generosity.  '  Dreams  and  visions/ 
it  will  be  said.  Hut  he  managed  to  realise  such  a 
:i  for  three  months,  and  In-  pursued  the  vision 

The  aneients  named  the  poets  TY//V.V,  which  means 
prophet.  No  man  deserved  the  name  better  than 
Lamartine.  lie  wafl  a  seer.  Some  nameless  instinct 
of  divination  :  !  to  him,  at  t  time,  i; 

public  crises,  and  the  part  he  should  play  in  them. 
When  one  p  at  ion  with  I  .ady  Stan- 

in  his  'Voyage  en  Orient,'  1  at 


r    Years  of  Recollections 

the  clearness  with  which  he  marks  to  himself  his  own 
goal,  and  with  the  consistency  he  proceeded  towards 
it.  If  we  study  his  character  from  the  year  1832,  we 
cannot  fail  to  be  struck  with  it  At  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  Chamber,  he  is  asked  to  which  party  he 
intends  to  belong :  '  To  the  socialistic  party.'  The 
word  had  never  been  heard  in  a  parliamentary  as- 
sembly. '  Socialistic,'  remarks  his  colleague,  '  what 
does  that  mean?  It  is  only  a  word.'  '  No,'  replies 
Lamartine,  '  it  is  an  idea.'  '  But  on  which  side  are 
you  going  to  sit ;  there  appears  to  be  no  room  for 
you  on  any  of  the  benches ? '  'In  that  case,'  replies 
Lamartine  with  a  semi-satrical,  semi-confident  smile, 
'  I'll  take  my  seat  on  the  ceiling.'  A  strange 
reply,  no  doubt,  but  characteristic  of  him  and 
showing  his  nature.  He  always  went  by  instinct 
to  the  spot  whither  wings  only  could  carry  him  and 
support  him  when  he  got  there. 

Superficial  minds  are  apt  to  compare  Lamartine  as 
an  orator,  to  a  virtuoso  who,  when  he  has  finished 
with  his  bravura  songs,  launches  into  poetical  dithy- 
rambics,  and  often  out  of  sheer  fancy  concerns  him- 
self with  a  few  practical  questions  ;  for  the  reader 
should  remember  that  he  was  one  of  the  most  ardent 
defenders  of  railways  against  Arago  ;  but  to  those 
who  think,  every  one  of  his  speeches  shows  the 
carefully  premeditated  conduct  of  the  political  man 
who  shirks  no  problem,  because  he  foresees  that  the 
day  may  come  when  he  will  have  to  solve  them  all. 


Si.vt}'    YCJTS  of  Recollections  283 

One  curious  fact  will  show  his  powers  of  assimila- 
tion. The  discussion  of  a  grand  project  for  a  canal 
was  clown  in  the  order  of  the  day.  The  deputy  who 

to  defend  it  falls  ill  on  the  very  morning  of  the 
debate.  The  interested  parties  are  advised  to  entrust 
Lamartine  with  the  task.  They  go  to  his  house  and 
are  told  that  he  is  in  his  bath  ;  nevertheless,  they  are 
admitted  and  after  waiting  a  little  while  they  are 
enabled  to  tell  him  their  business.  '  But  I  don't 
know  a  single  word  of  the  whole  of  that  business,' 
protests  Lamartine.  '  We  are  going  to  tell  you  all 
about  it,'  is  the  answer.  '  But  there  is  not  a  man  in 
the  Chamber  who  is  less  of  a  civil  engineer  than  I  am.' 
1  That  does  not  matter,  a  man  like  you  can  earn  his 
diploma  in  a  few  moments.'  '  Very  well,  tell  me  what 
I  am  to  do.'  They  begin  telling  him  while  he 
remains  in  his  bath,  they  continue  their  instructions 
while  he  is  getting  out  of  it  ;  they  never  cease  while 
•ig,  they  stay  to  breakfast  and  keep  on 

liing  him  ;  and  tw. »  hours  later  Lamartine  delivers 

a    business    speech,    which    is   voted    on    all  sides   a 

marvel   of  clearness  and  accuracy.     The  was 

at,  and    the    surprise  greater  still  ;  everyone 

lively  astounded,   everybody  except    Lamar- 

hi  in  self.  '  I  have  been  aware  for  many  years  of 
my  Capacities  as  a  practical  man,'  he  said.  '  Tin- 
people  refuse  to  believe  in  them  I.  om- 
posc<:  rfaapfl  they  would  have  believed  it"  tin- 
had.  Till.. i  innately  then-  arc-  some 


Vfars  of  Recollections 

good   ones  among   them,  nay  some  beautiful  ones  ; 

\\hat  has  ruined  me  in  their  opinion.' 
:  times,  his  foresight  found  vent  in  the  rostrum,  in 
words  of  prophecy.  When  the  Chamber  wished  to 
the  bill  for  the  return  of  Napoleon's  remains, 
Lamartine  protested.  The  strange  union  of  liberalism 
and  imperialism  under  the  Restoration  had  alwrays 
shocked  him.  To  him  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  lie. 
He  refused  to  be  influenced  by  the  fact  that  all  the 
great  poets  of  the  period,  French  as  well  as  foreign, 
Manzoni,  Lord  Byron,  BeVanger,  Victor  Hugo  and 
Casimir  Delavigne  had  constituted  themselves  to 
coryphaei  of  Napoleon's  immense  glory.  While  fully 
admiring  the  genius,  he  kept  relentlessly  looking  for 
the  tyrant  behind  the  conqueror,  and  launched  against 
him  that  terrible  anathema.— 

4  Rien  d'humain  ne  bntuit  sous  son  epaisse  armure.' 

This  'coupling 'of  liberty  and  despotism  seemed  to 
him  on  the  part  of  liberty  nothing  less  than  adulter- 
ous ;  as  a  consequence  he  uprose  against  that 
triumphal  return  with  all  the  strength  of  his  eloquence. 
No  more  admirable  words  ever  resounded  from  that 
rostrum,  and  when  he  felt  himself  vanquished  at  last 
he  flung  as  a  parting  cry  that  solemn  warning  which 
to-day  strikes  us  as  one  of  the  prophecies  of  the 
Cassandra  of  old — '  Be  it  so  then,  seeing  that  nothing 
isfy  you.  Bring  back  his  remains.  Take 
column  "  as  a  pedestal  for  his  statue  ...  it  is, 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  285 

after  all  his  work,  his  monument,  but   I  entreat  you 
to  write  at  least  on  the  base  "To  Napoleon  only." 
T<>  Napoleon  alone). 

In  a  little  while  Lamartine's  opposition  grew  more 
and  more  conspicuous,  though  he  never  entered  into 
any  conspiracy  or  plot,  whatever  might  be  its  aim.* 
No  one  was  less  of  a  conspirator  than  he,  first,  because 
to  conspire  means  to  be  several,  and  because  he  liked 
to  march  alone ;  secondly,  because  his  generous  dis- 

:ion  disliked  any  and  everything  savouring  of 
clandestine  machination.  But  his  speeches,  his  con- 

ition  and  eventually  his  books  conspired  for  him  ; 

•ublished  '  Les  Girondins'  which  was  both  a  book 
and  an  act. 

As  a  book  it  possesses  a  kind  of  peculiar  merit, 
which  is  pretty  well  indicated  by  a  sentence  of 
Lamartine  himself.  On  the  day  he  ascended  Mount 
Lebanon  for  the  first  time  he  was  so  deeply  moved  by 
the  grandeur  of  the  spectacle  that  there  and  then,  and 

to  face  with  the  spectacle  itself,  he  improvised  a 

nificent  description  of  it.  One  of  his  companions, 
a  young  officer  could  not  help  remarking:  '  Hut  \\here 
do  you  see  all  this,  Monsieur  <le  Lamartine?  I  fail 


*    I    may   be  allowed   to  antii  ipate   in}'   nairativc   by   «ji: 
whi-h    sun  determin.-r  from 

y  refused    to   take    pan   in    the 

;icn  the  leaders  of  the  b 
merits   had   fina  pie   to  meet  them  in  the   ; 

!  reasons,  hesita: 

ceed  thitlu  .1  '  I  will  go,  though  I  had  no 

but  my  shadow.' 

;ets  led  indirectly  to  the  revolution  of  '48. — TR. 


-So  }'t'ars  of  Recollections 

to  percc  '-^v  tiling  of  what  you  are  describ- 

•I  don't  wonder  at  that.  I  am  looking  at  the 
scene  with  the  eyes  of  a  poet.  You  are  looking  at  it 
with  the  eyes  of  a  staff-captain.'*  Here  we  have  the 
merit  and  the  defect  of  Lamartine  as  a  historian  at 
the  same  time.  No  one  has  depicted  the  grand  days 
of  the  Revolution  with  greater  force;  no  one  has 
given  more  striking  portraits  of  the  principal  actors 
in  that  drama.  The  reason  why  ?  Because  he  sees 
them  in  the  aggregate  both  with  his  bodily  eyes  and 
with  those  of  his  imagination  ;  because  he  transforms 
without  disfiguring  them  ;  in  one  word,  because  he  is 
a  poet  Unfortunately,  he  is  not  sufficient  of  a  staff- 
captain,  hence,  we  have  got  an  eloquent,  fascinating 
book,  full  of  pathos,  and  admirable  just  as  a  whole, 
but  far  less  perfect  in  the  matter  of  detail,  which 
imperfection  brings  home  to  our  minds  the  difference 
between  accuracy  and  truth.  Lamartine  had  read  a 
great  deal,  but  at  random,  unsystematically,  and  as 
fancy  prompted  him.  He  was  as  it  were,  unprovided 
with  the  capital  of  instruction,  he  had  not  even  a 
library.  A  few  volumes  scattered  about  his  room, 
trying  to  constitute  themselves  into  a  compact  body, 
though  even  then  they  would  not  have  had  a  permanent 
abiding  place,  made  up  the  whole  of  his  baggage  as 

*  A  similar  anecdote  is  told  of  Turner,  when  he  showed  his  picture 
of  'Covent  Garden'  to  a  lady  who  had  come  to  visit  him.  'Very 
beautiful  indeed,  Mr  Turner,  but  I  have  been  to  Covent  Garden  also, 
and  I  fail  to  see  it  as  you  do.'  '  Don't  you  wish  you  could,  madam  ! ' 
said  the  painter  somewhat  bluntly.— TR. 


}'t°(trs  of  Recollections 

far  as  study  was  concerned.  When  in  want  of  a  book, 
he  sent  to  the  nearest  bookseller's  for  it  and  read  it  as 
barristers  read  a  brief,  with  that  marvellous  intuition 
which  enables  them  to  put  their  finger  on  the  very 
passages  they  want,  as  if  those  passages  had  been 
written  in  red  ink.  That  was  Lamartine's  method. 
I  le  devoured  books,  guessing  half  the  time  what  was 
in  them,  assimilated  their  contents,  transforming  the 
latter  as  he  went  and  passed  on.  Buchez  and  de 
Roux's  •  Ilistoire  Parliamentaire '  had  given  him  the 
first  idea  of  *  Les  Girondins,'  he  developed  and  com- 
pleted the  idea  by  the  feverish  perusal  of  works 
pointed  out  to  him  by  a  friend  ;  then  went  in  quest  of 
more  personal  information. 

A  curious  story  will  enable  us  to  get  at  the  very  core 
of  that  strange  book  which  has  been  so  badly  judged  as 
an  act.      Lamartine  had  been  told  that  one  of  the  last 
remnants  of  the  Convention,  one  of  the  members  of  the 
Committee  of  Public   Safety,  and  one  of  the  most 
faithful   friends    of    Robespierre   was   still    alive;    Dr 
Soubem'ellc,  who  was   living   in   one  of  the    Parisian 
faubourgs.    One  morning  at  about  ten  Lamartinc  JHV- 
himselfat  his  domicile.     The  old  man— he  was 
v-thrcc  'ill   in  bed.     On  seeing  the  illus- 

trioii  tcr    his    room,   I  )r   Soubcrx  ielle   gets 

into  a  sitting   posture,  without    -howin-    tin-  sli-1 
emotion  at  or  intercut  in  the  advent  of  the  bearer  of 
that    -iv.it    name.      The    men    of  that   by-one   period 
did  not   trouble  themselves   much,  and   had   but 


jss  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

admiration  for  anyone  unlike  themselves.  Slightly 
inclining  his  head,  covered  with  a  cotton  nightcap, 
the  old  member  of  the  Convention  asked  in  a  curt 
and  trenchant  voice :  '  What  is  your  business  with 
me,  monsieur ? '  'I  have  come  to  ask  you  for  some 
correct  particulars  of  the  Convention,  the  history  of 
which  I  am  writing.'  *  You  ! '  says  the  old  man,  look- 
ing fixedly  at  him  ;  then,  with  one  of  those  vigorous 
expressions  which  formed  part  of  the  dictionary  of 
yore,  '  You  haven't  got  guts  enough  to  write  that 
history,'  *  saying  which  he  lies  down  again.  La- 
martine  was  not  a  bit  shocked  at  the  answer  either 
in  the  spirit  or  substance.  That  past  participle  did 
not  frighten  him  in  the  least.  In  fact,  he  made  fre- 
quent use  of  it  himself,  though  it  jarred  somewhat 
with  the  general  character  of  his  poetry ;  but,  as 
Pascal  has  it,  the  human  heart  is  made  up  of  con- 
trasts. Consequently,  he  refused  to  take  No  for  an 
answer,  and  finally  obtained  some  valuable  par- 
ticulars. 

The  book  produced  an  enormous  sensation  and 
had  a  considerable  influence  on  the  events  of  the 
time,  not  because  it  was,  as  has  been  unjustly  said,  an 
apology  of  the  Reign  of  Terror ;  if  it  had  been  that, 
everyone  would  have  shrank  from  it  in  horror  and  dis- 
gust, but  because  it  was  the  apology  of  the  Republic. 


•  I  have  considerably  toned  down  the  expression  in  English  ;  in  fact, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  the  exact  equivalent  for  the  French 
verb,  or  rather  the  past  participle  of  it,  used  by  Dr  Soubervielle.— TR. 


Years  of  Recollections  289 

:artine  reinstated  the  latter  in  its  proper  place  in 
TV  by  presenting  it  in  a  poetical  and  grandiose 
form  ;  he  purified  it  by  lifting  it  out  of  the  mire  of 
atrocities  of  which  it  had  been  the  victim  rather  than 
the  accomplice;  he  stirred  France  to  ideas  of  glory 
and  liberty  which  seemed  so  many  satires  on  that 
pusillanimous  policy  more  or  less  tainted  with  the 
bourgeois  spirit,  the  policy  of  abandoning  the  lead 
to  other  nations,  which  I  must  confess,  I  have 
not  the  courage  to  blame  under  the  present 
circumstances,  for  after  all  what  is  a  secondary 
position  compared  x  to  dismemberment  and  mutila- 
tion ?  But  in  those  days  we  still  had  the  right 
to  have  national  susceptibilities  and  to  foster  grand 
aspirations.  '  Les  Girondins*  responded  to  those 
thoughts.  Lamartine  translated  that  undefined  agita- 
tion of  the  public  mind  by  the  words  which  have 
become  historical  :  '  France  is  intensely  bored.'  In 
short,  like  the  grand  seabinls,  he  felt  that  the  storm 
1  plied  his  wings  towards  a  distant  goal 
ed.  One  of  his  friends,  un- 
:it  direction  in  which  his  i<h 

tending,  and  ha\ ;  1  him  the   reason,  he   replied 

textually,  as  follows — *  I  see  whither  France  is  travcl- 
ril  be  waiting  for  her  on  the  road   ten    \ 

I'll    be   there    and    she'll    take    me   up   by    the 
.md  I  may  be  useful    to  her.  .  .  .   '    The  u 
then:  ave  led  us  to  the  I  l«»tel-de-\*illc. 

n.  T 


290  Years  of  Recollections 

III 

Lamartine's  dream  has  been  realised ;  after  ;i 
storm  of  twenty-four  hours  he  stands  at  the  helm. 
His  unaffected  greatness  was  admirable  to  a  degree. 
During  three  months  he  governed,  administrated, 
moderated,  ruled,  electrified  the  mob  without  an 
illegal  act,  however  trifling,  without  resorting  to 
violence  or  armed  force,  without  firing  a  shot,  with- 
out shedding  a  drop  of  blood.  With  what  did  he 
govern  ?  With  simple  words.  When  men  swayed 
by  the  most  furious  passions  and  the  most  urgent 
needs,  driven  by  the  most  fatal  theories  knocked  at 
the  doors  of  the  Hotel-de-Ville,  he'  merely  left  the 
Council,  stepped  on  a  chair,  spoke  for  a  quarter-of- 
an-hour,  asking  ingenuously  of  those  who  accom- 
panied him  :  '  Is  that  right/  and  the  passions  subsided, 
the  roars  and  yells  ceased,  the  savage  brutes  grew 
subdued  ;  it  was  no  longer  a  scene  from  contem- 
porary history  that  was  being  enacted,  but  a  scene 
from  mythology.  Such  things  had  not  been  seen 
since  the  days  of  Orpheus. 

There  were  some  magnificent  days  in  Lamartine's 
tence  during  those  three  months.  WThich  was 
the  most  magnificent?  The  day  of  the  red  flag? 
No.  That  of  the  manifesto?  No.  That  on  which 
he  replied  to  the  madman  who  clamoured  for  his 
head :  '  Would  to  heaven  you  had  it  on  your 
shoulders?'  No.  In  my  opinion  the  i6th  April 


Years  of  Recollections  291 

and  the  3rd  May  were  the  most  memorable  days 
uf  that  three  months'  reign  ;  the  1 6th  April  because 
on  that  day  the  great  statesman  showed  himself  at 
the  same  time  the  most  skilful  of  diplomatists  ;  the 
3rd  May,  because  on  that  day,  Lamartine,  in  order 
to  save  the  city,  sacrificed  more  than  his  life  which 
he  had  often  risked  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  he  sacri- 
ficed his  popularity. 

I  have  in  support  of  my  contention  some  personal 
and  accurate  details. 

In  March  1848,  a  house  situated  at  the  angle  of  the 

Rue   de    Rivoli    and    the    Place   des  Pyramides  and 

which  had  until  then  been  used  as  the  audit  office  of 

the  King's  household,  was  taken  possession  of  in  a 

free   and  easy  revolutionary  way  by  a   young   man 

completely  unknown  three  months  before.     He  had 

suddenly  become  very  formidable  by  the  publication 

of  a  paper,  the  very  title  of  which,  '  La  Commune 

a    standing    menace.     The    young 

fellow's   name  was  Sobrier  ;   I   knew  Sobrier;  he  was 

five-  and  si. \-and-twenty,  honest,  terribly  in 

and     fanatical    beyond    compare.     He   had 

i  unquestionable  proof  of  his  sincerity,  he  offered 

\vholeof  his  fortune,  twelve  thousand 

mm.     If  all  the /;///  /.vwerecom- 

d    to    furnish    like    proofs,   their    number    would 

i  Her  than  it  is.      Nothing  tom  lies 

the    i,  disinter.  ;d    roiise<  jiiently 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections 

great  and  genuine.  On  the  eve  or  on  the  morrow  of 
great  events,  small  bills  of  a  reddish  violet  were  found 
posted  up  at  the  street  corners,  merely  displaying  the 
laconic  but  threatening  sentences:  'The  people  are 
not  satisfied  with  the  events  of  yesterday.  If  the 
provisional  government  commits  such  mistakes  again, 
two  hundred  thousand  of  us  will  go  and  remind  them 
of  their  duty.  Signed  Sobrier.'  The  mystery,  the 
brevity,  the  firmness  of  the  style  had  the  effect  of 
adding  largely  to  the  prevalent  fear.  True,  people 
laughed  among  themselves  at  those  everlasting  two 
hundred  thousand  men  who  appeared  regularly  on 
those  bills  and  whom  no  one  had  ever  seen,  but  they, 
nevertheless,  shook  in  their  shoes.  It  was  well  known 
that  the  house  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  was  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Revolution,  whence  constantly  issued 
pass-words  and  orders  which  the  working  population 
obeyed. 

On  the  1 6th  April  Paris  was  thrown  into  a  great 
state  of  excitement  by  the  rumour  that  a  formidable 
popular  movement  was  impending.  I  happened  to 
be  passing  the  door  of  Sobrier's  ministry  and  went  in 
to  get  the  news.  The  yard,  the  staircases,  every  nook 
and  corner  resounded  with  the  rattle  of  rifles  ;  sentries 
everywhere.  As  a  matter  of  course,  I  was  going  upstairs 
when  a  sentry  barred  the  way.  '  You  can't  pass  here.' 
1 1  always  pass.'  '  What  is  your  business,  citizen  ?  '  'I 
wish  to  see  Monsieur  Sobrier.'  '  Citizen  Sobrier  is  en- 
gaged. '  That  may  be,  but  he  will  see  me.'  <  Your 


ty    Years  of  Recollections  293 

name,  citizen?  '  '  Monsieur  Legouve.'  I  am  bound  to 
admit  that  I  took  a  kind  of  fiendish  delight  in  flinging 
broadcast  the  l  monsieurs  '  in  the  sanctuary  erected  to 
the  cult  of  the  civic  virtues.  All  at  once  the  sentry 
notices  an  apparently  important  personage  coming 
down  the  stairs.  'Citizen,'  he  yells, 'here  is  citizen 

•  uvc  who  wishes  to  speak  with  citizen  Sobrier.' 
'  Let  him  go  up.'  '  Much  obliged,  monsieur,'  I 
answer,  and  in  another  moment  I  find  myself  in  a 
vast  room  where  I  behold  Sobrier  bending  over  a  big 
table,  his  loins  girded  with  a  crimson  sash  with  a  pair 
of  pistols  sticking  out  of  it  and  rapidly  filling  in  small 
bulletins  which  he  hands  to  orderlies  crowding 
round  him.  'You  are  just  in  time,'  he  said  when 

ai-ht  >ight  of  me.  '  I  want  recruits,  and  I'll  take 
you.'  '  One  moment,'  I  answered,  laughing,  '  I  am 
not  so  easily  taken  as  all  that ;  before  I  enlist,  I  must 
know  with  whom,  for  whom,  and  against  whom  I  am 

^  to  fight.'     '  I  am  going  to  tell  you.'     Thereupon, 

all  his  bulletins  bavin-  been  filled  in  and  distributed. 

he   leads   me  to  a  window  recess  and  says  :    'It    is 

not!:  than    a    question   of  saving    Paris   from 

wholesale  massacre  and  burning.'   '  I  don't  understand.' 

'  There  are  people  who  arc   born  scourges  of  humanity 

Blanqui   is  one.      While    I    am  talking  to  you,  he 

around  him  a  hundred  thousand  madmen 

and  who  obey  hi  .mmands  ;    in  an 

hour  from   now  they'll  start  from  the  Champ  de  Mars 

:ited    to    inert    and    maivh   to 


2^4  t  of  Recollections 

the  Hotel-de-Ville  ;  they'll  overthrow  the  government 
and  butcher  everyone  who  resists  them,  having  made 
up  their  mind  to  set  fire  to  everything  in  the  event  of 
their  getting  the  worse.'  Vastly  exaggerated  as  the 
story  seemed  to  me — for  in  those  days  we  failed  to 
conceive  the  possibility  of  such  monstrous  things — 
Sobrier's  face  and  tone  of  voice  produced  a  deep  im- 
pression. '  Oh  ! '  he  exclaimed,  clutching  his  head, 
while  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes ;  '  Oh,  and  I  who 
dreamt  of  an  angelic  republic.'  Then  interrupting 
himself  for  a  moment,  he  went  on,  in  an  intensely  ex- 
cited, energetic  tone.  '  We  must  prevent  this  at  all 
costs,  and  prevent  it  I  will.  I  have  promised  La- 
martine.'  '  Lamartine,'  I  repeated,  '  you  saw  Lamar- 
tine  ?  '  *  Yes,  he  sent  for  me  during  the  night.  We 
talked  together  for  nearly  an  hour :  it's  all  over,  I  am 
his,  body  and  soul.  My  dear  Legouve,  what  a  man, 
what  a  sublime  republican  and  what  a  magnificent 
strategist.  He  himself  drew  up  the  whole  of  my  plan 
of  attack.  I  am  going  to  mass  my  men  in  the  streets 
adjoining  the  route  Blanqui  will  take,  and  when  his 
vanguard  and  the  front  ranks  of  his  main  body  shall 
have  passed,  I  cut  his  band  in  two  ;  he  shall  find  my 
two  hundred  thousand  men  between  himself  and  the 
Hotel-de-Ville,  and  I  defy  him  to  advance.' 

The  plan  succeeded.  The  Hotel-de-Ville  was  pre- 
served from  destruction,  the  provisional  government 
maintained,  the  city  saved,  and  the  day  that  had 
been  looked  forward  to  with  fear  and  trembling,  was 


Years  of  Recollections  295 

converted  into  one  of  triumph  for  the  friends  of 
r ;  so  that,  subsequently,  when  he  was  accused 
of  having  conspired  with  Sobrier,  Lamartine  was 
able  to  answer  with  a  smile  :  '  Yes,  I  conspired  with 
Sobrier  as  the  lightning  conductor  conspires  with  the 
lightning.' 

The  3rd  May  completed  the  work  of  the  i6th 
April.  Deeply  impressed  with  the  great  services 
rendered  by  Lamartine,  the  Assembly  proclaimed  its 
intention  of  vesting  in  him  alone  the  provisional 
rnment.  He  declined  the  honour.  Then  the 
Assembly  proposed  that,  at  anyrate,  Ledru-Rollin 
should  be  excluded  from  the  direction  of  affairs, 
which  proposal  was  still  more  energetically  declined 
Lamartine.  This  act  with  which  he  has  been 
most  frequently  reproached,  redounds  most  to  his 
honour.  He  did  not  like  M.  Ledru-Rollin,  the  hitter's 
Jacobinistic  opinions  were  repugnant  to  Lamartine, 
who  was  not  even  affected  by  Rollin's  real  oratorical 
talents.  Hut  Lamartine  foresaw  well  enough  that  if 
Ledru-Rollin  was  not  a  member  of  the  government,  he 
would,  perhaps,  be  its  adversary  and  that  with  Ledru- 
11  added  to  the  army  of  riot  and  disorder,  riot 
and  disorder  ini-ht  score  the  victory.  In  fact,  it 
would  be  difficult  for  anyone  to  say  what  the  revol- 
utionary movement  of  the  i  5th  May  and  tlu-  terrible 

June  would  have  been,  if  on  the  first  of  i 
days,  Ledru-Rollin  had  left  the  side  of  L.unartine  and 
on   tl  :id    headed    the   revolt.      People    failed   to 


J-  />  )  >#>-.$•  <?/"  Recollections 

see  the  profound  wisdom  of  Lamartine,  they  raised 
the  cry  of  treason.  The  defenders  of  the  party  of 
moral  order  of  that  time  accused  him  of  having 
from  sheer  ambition  and  weakness  compounded  with 
the  revolutionaries,  from  which  it  will  be  seen  that 
the  proverb  to  the  effect  that  '  the  days  succeed  one 
another,  but  are  not  like  one  another,'  does  not  apply 
to  parties  in  the  State.  The  conduct  of  Lamartine 
was  admirable  in  that  respect,  inasmuch  as  he  foresaw 
calumny  and  announced  beforehand  the  ingratitude 
which  would  be  his  lot.  On  the  day  he  started  from 
the  Ministry  of  Foreign  Affairs  to  repair  to  the 
Assembly  in  order  to  show  it  the  necessity  of  elect- 
ing M.  Ledru-Rollin,  he  said  aloud  :  '  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  going  to  do  ?  I  am  going  to  save  Paris 
and  lose  my  popularity.'  And  he  went.  The  elec- 
tion over,  he  left  the  Chamber,  got  into  a  cab  with 
one  of  his  friends,  Comte  d'Esgrigny,  from  whom  I 
have  these  particulars,  and  after  a  moment's  silence 
remarked  :  '  My  dear  fellow,  the  end  has  come.  In 
another  month,  I'll  only  be  fit  to  fling  to  the  dogs.' 
In  the  course  of  his  existence  he  has  been  justly  com- 
pared to  very  great  men  indeed,  but  on  that  day  he 
deserved  to  have  his  name  associated  with  the  name 
that  remains  purest  in  history,  that  of  Washington. 

His  forebodings  proved  true ;  in  a  few  days,  in- 
fluence, prestige,  everything  vanished,  leaving  in  their 
stead,  pain,  disappointment,  and  bitterness.  The 
troublous  days  of  June  found  him,  as  always,  ready  to 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  297 

confront  the  danger,  but  they  struck  him  a  mortal 
blow.  He  had  foreseen  them  in  despair,  and  ex- 
pressed his  anguish  in  one  of  those  sentences,  both 
ic  and  vulgar,  which  sprang  rather  than  fell  from 
his  lips  like  a  kind  of  explosion.  'We'll  not  get  out 
of  this,  except  by  a  tremendous  sweep  of  the  broom  in 
the  blood-stained  streets/  All  the  subsequent  events 
equally  bitter,  and  the  presidential  election  of 
the  loth  December  (the  election  of  Louis-Napoleon) 
filled  his  cup  of  patriotic  grief  to  the  brim.  It  was 
not  the  loss  of  power  that  broke  his  heart,  but  the 
knowledge  that  his  work  was  being  destroyed,  the 
Republic  overthrown,  and  liberty  becoming  a  mean- 
ingless phrase,  the  sight  of  a  nation  enthusiastically 
prostrating  herself  before  the  name  which  had  pro- 
voked his  loudest  curse.  It  seemed  as  if  the  sound 
of  that  name  aroused  the  prophetic  instinct  once 
,  as  if  it  enabled  him  to  see  the  penalty  we  should 
to  pay  one  day  for  this  fetichism,  and  like 
Brutus  on  the  plains  of  Thessaly,  he  uttered  the  cry 
of  despair:  '  The  >lc  are  unstable  as  sand.  I 

ought  to  have  had    myself   killed    on    the    steps   of 

--Philippe's  tin-- 

And  now  I  have  come  to  th<»e  dark  and   la-l  years 
which  were-  to  him   but   a   pr  ainst 

the  servitude  of  debt,  during  which,  it  must  be 
admitted,  he  often  failed  in  dignity — from  sheer  pride. 
I  lew, is  too  apt  to  remember  what  !  d  to 

him.  •  apt  to  forget  what  he  owed  to  himself. 


298  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

I  will  not  stop  to  discuss  the  subject,  remembering 
!  do  that  delightful  reply  of  Saint-Marc  Girardin 
before  whom  some  one  charged  Lamartine  with 
improvidence  and  dissipation.  'There  may  be  some 
truth  in  what  you  say,  but  I  know  many  people  who 
have  put  their  names  to  as  many  bills  and  who  have 
not  put  their  names  to  '  Les  Meditations."  '*  Besides, 
we  ought  not  to  forget  that  his  trials  became  sancti- 
fied as  it  were  by  his  unremitting  labour,  that  the 
devotion  shown  under  them  invested  them  with  a 
poesy  of  their  own.  Lamartine  was  no  longer  the 
Lamartine  of  old,  the  idea  frequently  eluded  his  grasp 
while  the  pen,  like  "Walter  Scott's,  still  laboured  on, 
laboured  on  without  ceasing,  to  pay  what  he  owed. 
Heaven  vouchsafed  to  him  an  admirable  auxiliary  in 
that  labour ;  one  instance  will  suffice  to  prove  it. 

Lamartine  had  taken  up  his  quarters  for  the  time 
being  at  Saint-Point.  One  evening  one  of  his  friends 
came  to  stay  with  him  for  a  little  while.  '  Yours  is 
indeed  an  opportune  visit,'  said  the  poet.  '  I  have 
just  put  the  last  touches  to  a  long  article  on  B^ranger 
for  the  Siecle.  Here  are  the  proofs,  read  them,  you 
will  be  delighted,  it  is  a  magnificent  essay.'  In  due 
time  the  friend  goes  to  his  room  and  to  bed,  and 
begins  reading  the  proofs.  It  had  just  struck  mid- 
night when  there  was  a  knock  at  his  door.  '  Who  is  it  ? ' 

*  In  order  to  preserve  as^much  as  possible  the  epigrammatic  turn  of  the 
remark,  I  have  taken  a  liberty  with  the  French  text  which  runs,  'Mais 
je  connais  tant  de  gens  qui  en  font  autant  ft  quinon  pas  fait  "  Les  Medita- 
tions.'"—Tu. 


Years  of  Recollections  299 

he  asked.  '  It  is  I,'  replied  a  gentle  voice,  '  Mme.  de 
Lamartine,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.'  '  I  can't  open, 
madame  ;  I  am  in  bed.'  '  Never  mind,  the  door  is  at 
the  foot  of  your  bed,  just  open  it  a  little  way  and  take 
this.'  The  friend  does  as  he  is  told  and  takes  a  paper 
from  the  hand  appearing  in  the  aperture.  Then  he 
closes  the  door  and  reads  :  *  There  is  on  page  1 3  a 
passage  that  worries  me.  I  fear  it  will  hurt  M.  de 
Lamartine  with  the  readers  of  the  Siecle.  Could  it 
not  be  modified  in  this  way  ? '  The  modification  was 
excellent.  The  friend  had  just  finished  copying  it  on 
the  margin  of  the  proof  when  there  was  a  second 
knock.  'Is  that  you,  madame?'  he  'asks.  'Yes, 
open  your  door  as  you  did  before  and  take  this  second 
paper.'  And  again  he  reads.  '  On  page  32,  there  is 
another  passage  which,'  etc.,  etc. 

Is  it  not  charming,  this  devotion,  that  purity  of 
mind  which  for  the  moment  forgets  all  convention- 
ality ;  that  purity  which  for  the  nonce  dispenses  with 
modesty,  is  it  not  touching  indeed  ?  For  we  should 
bear  in  mind  that  Mme.  de  Lamartine  was  not  only 
one  of  the  iim^t  -.aintlike  of  women,  but  a  puri- 
tanical besides.  And  in  sax-ing  this,  I  am  putting  it 
mildly,  she  wafl  an  Knglishxvoinan  xvho  added  Hritish 
prudery  in  exvry  form  to  Freneh  <1  '  \\  every  form; 

neverthr  bravely  kn 

young  fellow's   door,   undeterred    by    his   answer  that 

he   JN   in    bed   and   quietly  hands  him  through  a  'door 

txvo    little    not-  0    with    their 


3OO  'r.irs  of  Recollections 

correspondence.  The  end  of  the  story  is  worthy  of 
the  beginning.  Next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table 
Mme.  de  Lamartine  starts  interrogating  her  accom- 
plice by  means  of  signals  and  looks,  and  he  in  his 
turn  and  by  the  same  means  conveys  to  her  that 
the  corrections  have  been  made.  '  Well,  dear  friend,' 
says  Lamartine,  '  have  you  read  my  "  B6ranger  ?  " 
'  Of  course  I  have.'  *  Magnificent,  isn't  it'  *  Mag- 
nificent is  the  word,  still  there  are  one  or  two  pass- 
ages. .  .  .'  '  Don't  ask  me  to  make  any  changes  ; 
I'll  not  make  any,  the  thing  is  perfect'  '  No  doubt 
it  is,  still,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  show  you  two 
slight  modifications.  .  .  .'  Saying  which,  he  hands 
the  corrected  proofs  to  Lamartine,  who  casts  his  eyes 
over  them  and  exclaims  :  '  Excellent,  very  just  indeed. 
You  are  perfectly  right'  Then  turning  to  his  wife, 
he  says  :  *  These  things  would  never  have  struck  you, 
my  dear.'  Mme.  de  Lamartine  simply  bent  over  her 
plate  and  smiled. 

This  admirable  companion  through  good  and  evil 
days,  had  to  leave  the  man  in  whom  her  life  had  been 
centred  to  battle  with  the  world.  Not  quite  alone, 
though,  for  she  had  the  comfort  in  leaving  him,  to 
bequeath,  as  it  were,  a  devotion  equal  to  hers,  a' 
daughter's  devotion,  which  tenderly  watched  over  the 
last  sad  years,  so  full  of  anguish,  of  the  poet,  which 
vigilantly  watches  to-day  over  the  poet's  posthumous 
fame.  The  memory  of  Lamartine  has  its  Antigone. 

His  obsequies  were  marked  by  a  pathetic  incident 


Years  of  Recollections  301 

His  remains  were  taken  to  Saint-Point,  and  left  the 
rail  at  Macon.  It  was  winter  and  snowing  fast,  as 
the  hearse  slowly  wended  its  way  through  the  small 
communes  and  boroughs  scattered  along  the  route. 
At  the  entrance  to  each  village  stood  the  priest  wait- 
ing for  the  coffin  to  offer  up  a  prayer.  The  bells  of  the 
different  churches  never  ceased  tolling,  they  answered 
one  another,  and  announced  to  the  more  distant  ones 
the  approach  of  the  funeral  procession.  At  a  short 
distance  from  Saint-Point  an  old  peasant  stood  weep- 
ing on  his  doorstep.  'You  may  well  cry,  my  good 
man,'  said  Jules  Sandeau,  taking  his  hands  in  his 
own,  'you  have  sustained  a  great  loss.'  'Indeed, 
monsieur,  he  was  an  honour  to  our  commune,'  was 
the  answer.  The  old  peasant  spoke  the  truth,  La- 
martine  was  an  honour  to  the  commune  as  he  was  to 
the  province,  to  the  province  as  he  was  to  France,  to 
I-Y.mcc  as  he  was  to  Europe,  as  he  was  to  humanity 
at  large ;  he  was  an  honour  to  manhood  it 

What    I    wish   to   study   finally   in   Lamartinc  is  the 

;;/</;/,  that   is,  one  of  the  strangest  and   most   original 

being^  the   wrld   ha*  produced.      ( )ne's  astonishment 

in   him  never  CC8  -rything   in   him  was  both  in 

harmony  and  in  contrast.      The  aristocratic  beauty  <•!" 

and  the  splendid   gait  was  marred    by  a  care- 

whkh  K  nous 

ifl   princely  air  and   inborn   d  Kloquence 

of  tli  and  .striking  kind,  the-  eUjn, 

of  the   tribune,  full   of  sentef*  -\<\\  outlined  like 


302  s  of  Recollections 

medals  and  powerful  ideas  translated  into  brilliant 
language,  the  whole  emphasised  by  a  glass  full  of 
wine  he  was  for  ever  waving  over  the  heads  of  the 
terrified  shorthand  reporters.  A  crushing  burden  of 
debt,  the  existence  of  which  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained, for  his  wants  were  few,  almost  none ;  he  was 
as  sober  and  frugal  as  an  Arab.  Not  a  single  ex- 
travagant taste;  in  the  way  of  luxuries  he  only  cared 
for  horses.  Not  a  single  vice  ;  I  am  mistaken,  he  had 
one,  at  any  rate,  he  boasted  of  one,  but  the  reason 
why  he  broke  himself  of  it  is  so  strange  that  I  give 
it  here  as  the  finishing  touch  to  his  portrait. 

'  When  I  was  young,'  he  said, '  I  was  a  passionate 
bier,  but  one  night  at  Naples,  I  discovered  an 
infallible  means  of  breaking  the  bank.  Of  course 
from  that  moment,  I  could  not  go  on  playing,  I  was 
sure  to  win.'  I  have  got  an  idea  that  that  kind  of 
gambler  is  not  often  met  with. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  God  had  endowed  him 
with  almost  every  blessing,  beauty,  high-birth,  courage, 
genius  ;  but  something  more  rare  than  all  those  gifts 
had  been  vouchsafed  to  him,  namely,  the  faculty  to 
use  them  at  will.  They  were  ever  ready  to  obey  his 
call.  No  matter  at  what  hour  he  was  always  ready 
to  speak,  write,  or  act.  If  a  great  danger  came  upon 
him  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  he  was  wrapped 
in  sleep,  no  cry  of  surprise  started  from  his  lips,  he 
displayed  not  a  moment's  fear.  His  heroism  was 
there  as  he  arose,  his  courage  awoke  when  he  did. 


s  of  Recoil  a;  303 

It  was  the  same  with  his  poetical  genius.  Hi> 
r  one  day  presented  to  him  a  young  girl  who 
wished  for  some  lines  from  his  pen  for  her  album. 
Lamartine  snatches  up  that  pen  and  without  a 
moment's  reflection,  without  a  second's  hesitation,  he 
writes  as  follows — 

'  Le  livre  de  la  vie  est  Ic  livre  supreme 
Qu'on  ne  peut  ni  fermer,  ni  rouvrir  a  son  choix  ; 
Le  passage  attachant  ne  s'y  lit  pas  deux  fois  ; 
Mais  le  feuillet  fatal  se  tourne  de  lui  meme ; 
On  voudrait  revenir  a  la  page  qu'on  aime, 
Et  la  page  ou  1'on  meurt  est  de"ja  sous  nos  doi- 

After  which  he  hands  the  paper  in  a  careless  way 

to  his  sister,  who  almost  stupified  by  the  beauty  of 

the    lines    and     his    evident    indifference,   exclaims  : 

'  Forgive  him,  O  Lord,  for  he  knoweth  not  what  he 

doeth.'      His   facility   for   writing  verse  was,  in   fact, 

such  as  to  breed  the  thought  that  he  was  unconscious 

of  what  he  was  doing.       Did  he  not  one  day   say  to 

a   friend  thoroughly  engrossed    in   his  work:  '  What 

you  doing,  sitting  there  with  your  head   in   both 

'I    am    thinking,'    was    the   an>\\vr.      'I  low 

strange,'    remarked    Lamartine;    'I    never    think,    my 

ideas   think    for  me.'     Truly,   in   the  MI< -h   a 

irk   one    is   almost    inclined    to   suspect   that   like 

miartine    had    a    familiar   demon,    living 

within,   acting  and   speaking  for  him.      In  any 

one   feels   bound  n't    that    that   demon    \\ 

•d  him  with 
thing    but    pity    and    goodness.       Kindr  the 


;o.j  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

distinctive  trait  of  that  admirable  being,  the  supreme 
seal  with  which  nature  had  marked  him,  the  crown 
she  had  set  upon  all  his  other  merits.  There  was 
a  name-loss  grandeur  about  Lamartine's  kindness, 
which  grandeur,  in  fact,  stamped  everything  he  did. 
\\\^  sympathy  not  only  included  the  whole  of 
humanity,  but  every  living  thing  created.  Like 
those  saints  of  the  Middle-Ages,  who,  it  was  said, 
were  bound  by  a  mystical  affinity  to  the  dumb  crea- 
tures and  whom  legend  represents  to  us  as  surrounded 
by  animals,  accompanying  their  every  step,  while  the 
birds  flutter  overhead,  Lamartine  seemed  to  keep  up 
a  mysterious  connection  with  the  lower  creation.  He 
has  painted  it  in  words  and  images  more  telling  even 
than  the  lines  of  Virgil  and  Homer.  So  great  was 
the  sympathetic  power  of  his  voice,  look  and  mien 
that  he  seemed  able  to  command  by  some  name- 
less magnetic  attraction  the  crowd  of  animals  living 
under  his  roof,  to  keep  them  around  him,  their  eyes 
fixed  on  his.  Those  dogs,  birds,  horses  were  not  so 
many  objects  of  amusement  to  Lamartine  as  they 
are  to  people  with  nothing  special  to  do.  He  looked 
upon  them  as  comrades,  nay,  as  he  said  himself,  as 
brothers.  He  interrogated,  answered  them,  for  he 
seemed  to  understand  them.  There  was  a  constant 
communication,  nay,  communion  between  that  superior 
soul  and  those  '  mere  germs  of  souls.'  I  can  see  him 
as  it  were  but  yesterday  lying  on  the  couch  and  con- 
versing on  very  serious  subjects  with  two  broken-haired 


.;:•    Years  of  Recollections  305 

terriers  squatted  at  his  feet,  while  a  small  greyhound 
was  perched  on  his  head  ;  the  latter  pretty  animal 
executing  such  sundry  graceful  evolutions  now  and 
then  that  I  could  not  help  expressing  my  admiration. 
>k  at  her,'  said  Lamartine,  without  turning  round, 
'  she  is  listening,  she  knows  we  are  talking  of  her,  she 
is  such  a  little  coquette.  .  .  .' 

There  are,  however,  numberless  people  whose  ex- 
ceeding great  love  for  animals  leaves  them  none  to 
>w  upon  men.  Lamartine  did  not  belong  to 
these,  his  humanity  oven  extended  to  human  beings. 
1 1  is  pity  for,  his  generosity  to,  those  who  suffered  was 
boundless  and  inexhaustible,  and  one  day  when  one 
of  his  friends  reproached  him  with  some  instance  of 
extravagant  charity,  he  replied,  'You'll  not  enter 
into  the  paradise  of  the  good,  you  are  not  too  good' 
No  one  could  have  levelled  that  reproach  at  him  ;  I 
leave  the  reader  to  judge  for  himself. 

A  poor  young  poet,  of  the  name  of  Armand  Le- 
bailly,  wh«»m  I  knew,  was  slowly  dying  of  consumption 
at  the  Saint-Louis  hospital.  I  induced  Lamartine  to 

him  a  visit,  feeling  certain  that  his  visit  would  do 
the  dying  man  more  good  than  the  visits  of  half-a- 
hundred  doctors.  The  moment  we  crossed  the 

te-Catherine  ward,   I  ;ht  of  the  poor 

young  fellow  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.     He  was 
sittin  the  stove-,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 

his  hands  clutchii  the   Ion-    hair  <>n  which 

almost   hid    1.  At   the  sound   of  our  steps   hr 

VOL    II  U 


306  )  'ears  of  Recollectiojis 

looks  up  with  a  wild  terrified  stare,  but  the  moment 
he  recognises  my  companion,  stupefaction,  joy, 
pride,  sympathy,  all  struggle  for  the  mastery  in  his 
features.  Quivering  like  an  aspen  leaf,  he  rises, 
comes  towards  us  and  has  barely  the  strength  to 
bend  reverently  over  the  hand  the  great  poet  holds 
out  to  him  and  to  touch  it  with  his  lips.  Lamartine's 
conversation  was  simply  a  mixture  of  a  father's 
kindness  and  a  poet's  goodness.  He  spoke  to  Le- 
bailly  of  his  verses,  he  even  repeated  some  of  them, 
no  Sister  of  Charity  could  have  been  more  admir- 
able and  considerate.  In  about  a  quarter-of-an- 
hour  we  got  up  and  seeing  that  the  patient 
wished  to  accompany  him  as  far  as  the  door, 
Lamartine  said,  'Take  my  arm  and  don't  mind 
leaning  on  it.'  In  that  way  we  crossed  that  long 
room  between  the  two  rows  of  its  inmates,  some 
standing  at  the  foot  of  their  beds,  others  too  weak  to 
get  off  their  chairs,  others  again  raising  themselves  in 
their  beds,  but  all  taking  off  their  caps  as  we  passed. 
The  name  of  the  illustrious  visitor  had  transpired, 
and  had,  as  it  were,  thrown  the  whole  of  the  hospital 
into  a  state  of  excitement.  Lebailly's  eyes  flashed 
with  pride  as  he  looked  to  the  right  and  left ;  they 
said  as  plainly  as  words  :  '  This  is  my  friend,  I  take 
his  arm.'  The  poor  fellow  laughed  and  wept  at  the 
same  time;  he  had  ceased  to  suffer  for  the  time  being. 
When  we  got  back  to  his  carriage,  Lamartine  said  : 
'  This  poor  young  fellow  is  no  doubt  very  ill,  but  he 


\\u-s  of  Recollections  307 

may  linger  for  a  long  while,  and  it  would  be  well  for 
him  to  have  some  comforts.  Add  this  to  what  you 
;oing  to  give  him.'  Therewith  he  handed  me  a 
5OO-franc  note.  The  reader  may  imagine  my  sur- 
when,  three  days  later,  I  learnt  that  proceedings 
had  been  taken  against  Lamartine  for  a  debt  of  4000 
francs,  which  he  was  unable  to  pay.  Face  to  face 
with  a  fellow  creature's  suffering  he  had  forgotten 
what  he  owed.  '  Sheer  madness  this,'  wiseacres  will 
exclaim.  Xo  doubt,  it  was  sheer  madness,  but  it  is 
an  instance  of  sheer  madness  that  may  safely  be 
published,  there  is  not  much  fear  of  contagion  in 
that  respect. 

And  if  I   made  it  a  point  to  wind  up  this  sketch 

with    the   account   of  that   charitable   impulse,    it    is 

because  it  appeals  to  me  as  the  most  distinctive  trait, 

not  only  of  Lamartine's  works,  but  of  his  life  :  namely, 

as    something    superhuman,    superior    to    common- 

e    itself.      Commonsense    is   a    most    admirable 

quality  in    man  ;  cominonscnse  prompts    him   to  do 

very  good    things    indeed,  but  it  is  not  the  motive 

a  things.     Commonsense  makes  neither 

heroes,   saint  nor    poets.      Commonsense 

would  no  more  have  sufficed  t<>  compose  the  '  Man i 

t<>    Kurope,'  or  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  the 

rabble   at    the    Hotel-de-Ville,    than    it    would    have 

i  :ed  to  wi  Medita:  \ndiTLamartine 

ibled  to  delight  the  world,  nay,  to  subdue 

that  wo  'iily  for  one  >h«»rt  day.  it   is   bo 


308  I  'ears  of  Recollections 

he  has  ever  taken  his  standpoint  on  a  more  lofty  level 
than  that  of  the  world  ;  because  he  has  been  a  great 
poet,  trying  to  put  his  precepts  into  practice.  There 

.  talk  of  erecting  a  monument  to  him  ;  if  so,  let 
those  responsible  for  the  idea  remember  what  the 

cnts  did.  They  crowded  their  forums  with  altars 
dedicated  to  youth,  beauty,  and  valour.  Let  them 
raise  a  column  dedicated  to  poesy,  and  place  atop  of 
it  the  statue  of  Lamartine.  That  is  his  rightful  place. 
Right  at  the  summit,  looking  up  at  the  heavens,  and 
commanding  the  city  of  which  he  has  been  the  glory 
and  the  salvation.  Let  it  be  a  statue  which,  like  the 
God  of  Day,  shall  uphold  a  golden  lyre  with  both 
hands.* 

*  The  projected    monument  took  the   shape  of   a  niggardly  bust, 
relegated  to  Passy,  one  of  the  suburbs  of  Paris. — TR. 


CHAPTER  X 

The  Portrait-Gallery  continued. — Beranger. — My  first  meeting  with  him. 
His  position  in  the  World  of  Letters. — His  moral  courage. — The 
Atheism  of  the  XVIIIth  century  and  ours. — Beranger's  Religious 
Sentiments.— His  admiration  for  the  Literature  of  Greece.— His 
influence  over  Great  Men.— Whence  it  sprang.— His  Wit.— His 
love  of  poor  people  and  of  young  people. — Three  Letters. 


I 

IT  would  be  sheer  ingratitude  on  my  part  not  to 
devote  some  space  to  Be" ranger  among  the  masters 
of  literature  of  my  younger  days.  Though  we  were 
never  on  very  intimate  terms,  his  influence  over  me 
was  very  real.  Three  letters  of  his  placed  at  the  end 
of  this  chapter  will  show  him  in  one  of  his  most 
and  least  known  sides  ;  namely,  as  a 
literary  advi 

It   was    in    the    salon    of    M.   de  Joiiy   that    I     met 
i     the    first    time.      I  IN    position    in    that 
Bfl    a    prominent    one.      His    talent    com- 
ded  admiration;   his  independent  judgment,  con- 
ration,  and  h:  il  tendency,  fear.      I  le  boldly 
the  famous  petition  addressed  to  Charles  X  to 

lying  tin-  plays  of 


310  of  Recollections 

the  romanticists,  and  this  in  the  face  of  the  signatures  to 
that  petition,  for  there  was  not  a  single  one  wanting, 
not  even  that  of  his  host.  He  had  the  courage  to 
take  up  the  cudgels  for  Victor  Hugo  in  that  gather- 
ing, to  place  the  '  Iphigenia '  of  Euripides  above  that 
of  Racine,  he  even  dared  to  speak  of  God.  In  those 
days  a  goodly  number  of  classicists  were  frankly 
atheistic.  Let  me  explain.  I  do  not  mean  the  kind 
of  dogmatic,  democratic,  pedantic  atheism  from 
which  has  sprung  that  intolerance  of  incredulity 
which  would  gladly  condemn  to  the  stake  those 'who 
attend  mass,  just  as  in  olden  times  they  burned  those 
who  did  not  go  to  mass,  not  the  atheism  that  drew 
from  the  brooding,  savage  Mallefille  the  *  Don't  talk 
to  me  of  God,  it  is  the  despot  of  Heaven.'  No,  the 
atheism  of  the  liberals  of  the  Restoration  savoured  of 
the  light  bantering  tone  of  that  of  the  eighteenth 
century  ;  it  was  witty,  good-natured,  laughter-loving. 
I  remember  Lemercier  replying  to  someone  who 
spoke  to  him  about  the  soul.  '  Yes,  I  know,  the  soul 
that  leaves  the  body  when  we  die.  You  remind  me 
of  children  who  when  they  see  a  watch  drop  on  the 
floor  and  find  out  that  it  has  stopped,  exclaim  in  a 
contrite  voice  :  "  Oh,  the  little  thing  is  dead." '  Well, 
it  was  amidst  that  sceptical  society,  at  one  of  M.  de 
Jouy's  Thursday  dinners  that  Beranger,  pressed  to 
sing  a  new  song,  boldly  intoned  '  Le  Dieu  des  Bonnes 
Gens.'  At  the  sound  of  that  first  line — 

1 II  est  un  Dieu,  devant  lui  je  m'inoline  ; ' 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  3 1 1 

there  was  a  general  shock,  almost  like  that  at  Mme. 
d'Epinay's  on  the  occasion  of  Jean-Jacques  Rous- 
seau's rising  amidst  the  very  impious  sallies  of  Diderot 
and  Holbach  and  saying,  'Well,  I,  gentlemen,  I 
believe  in  God.'  Beranger's  attempt  in  this  instance 
was  prompted  by  a  dual  motive.  He  wished,  first  of 
all,  to  affirm  his  religious  sentiments  which  were 
much  more  intense  than  people  generally  imagine. 
Beranger  was  not  only  a  believer,  but  a  Christian  at 
heart,  if  not  by  faith.  His  favourite  book  was  the 
Gospel.  He  often  referred  to  the  'Sermon  on  the 
Mount'  as  a  masterpiece  of  grandiose  eloquence  and  it 
will  surprise  many  to  hear  what  he  said  to  me  one  day, 
towards  the  end  of  his  life  :  *  It  often  seems  to  me  that 
:rst  PI!  meet  on  my  arnral  in  tJie  other  world  will 
be  Christ: 

His    second    aim  was  altogether   literary.      I    am 
unable  to  say  whether,  as  some  of  his  friends  main- 
tained, Beranger  knew  Latin,  or  whether,  as  he  him- 
self maintained,  he  did  not  know  it.     One  thing,  how- 
•  •rtain,  he  was  by  no  means  enthusiastic  about 
the  literature  of  the  Latins.     His  admiration  was  en- 
ed    for   Greek    poetry.      'Your    Romans 
compared  to  the  Athenians   are  only  so  many  bar- 
he  often  said,  and  added:    'Athens  is  the 
genuine    land    of   art.'      In    his  'Voyage   Iin.i  ;i:i,iirr,' 
there  is  an  admirable  picture  <»f  his  love  for  Greece. 

'  \      \  i.u  faut-il  IJK  luisc  Hom&re, 

;  ,  je  fus  G 


312  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

Sous  Pericles,  j'eus  Athenes  pour  mere ; 

Je  visilai  Socrate  en  prison  ! 

De  Phidias  j'encensai  les  merveilles, 

DC  1'Ilissus  j'ai  vu  les  bords  fleurir, 

J'ai  sur  1'Hymete  eveille  les  abeilles 

C'est  la,  c'ebt  la,  que  je  voudrais  mourir  .  .  .  .' 

Fed,  as  it  were,  upon  Homer,  Euripides,  Sophocles, 
nay  Plato,  he  conceived  the  plan  after  his  first 
success,  to  raise  the  level  of  the  song,  to  enlarge  its 
scope.  He  considered  the  title  of  '  successor  to 
D£saugiers '  a  mild  kind  of  glory ;  he  aspired  to 
something  better  than  to  make  Venus  rhyme  to 
Bacchus.  He  wished  to  move  his  hearers,  to  make 
them  think,  to  put  grand  poetry  into  small  couplets 
and  introduce  into  the  burden  of  his  songs  not  only 
politics,  but  lofty  questions  of  philosophy  and  ethics. 
'  Le  Dieu  des  bonnes  gens '  was  his  first  attempt  in 
that  direction  and  as  he  often  told  me  afterwards,  he 
quaked  more  or  less  when  submitting  his  work  to  that 
distinguished  and  scoffing  gathering.  The  success 
was  simply  immense.  He  had  been  clever  enough  to 
mingle  with  that  confession  of  faith  so  many  beauti- 
ful lines,  so  much  patriotism,  so  much  grandeur  of 
imagery  and  now  and  then  so  much  wit  that  they 
condoned  the  belief  for  the  sake  of  the  talent.  His 
third  strophe  aroused  the  enthusiasm  of  everyone. 

'  Un  conqueYant,  dans  sa  fortune  altiere, 

Se  fit  un  jeu  des  sceptres  et  des  lois  ! 
Et  de  ses  pas  on  peut  voir  la  poussiere 

Hinpreinte  encor  sur  le  bandeau  des  rois  ! ' 

There  and  then  the  song  writer  was  voted  not  only 


.SY.r/r    Years  of  Recollections  313 

cat  poet,  but  a  great  lyric  poet.  His  preponder- 
ance in  the  literary  world  was  singularly  increased  by 
this. 

It  is  difficult  to  get  a  correct  idea  nowadays  of 
the  part  played  by  Beranger  at  that  period.  He  was 
virtually  the  counsellor  of  the  men  of  his  time  and  no 
one  wielded  a  greater  influence  over  his  contempor- 
aries. And  yet,  he  by  no  means  affected  to  possess 
such  influence,  nay,  more,  he  in  no  way  courted 
it.  Very  sober  in  speech,  more  sober  in  gestures,  he 
waited  until  people  came  to  him,  but  while  waiting, 
he  attracted.  The  most  prominent  men  of  that  time, 
Manuel,  Benjamin  Constant,  Laffitte,  Thiers,  con- 
sulted Beranger  in  everything  they  did.  At  the 
: ut ion  of  July  (1830)  Talleyrand  expressed  the 
desire  to  meet  Beranger.  But  their  relation  to  one 
another  was  that  of  two  great  powers  ;  they  were  like 
two  sovereigns  whose  dignity  prevents  them  from 
making  the  first  call.  Beranger  would  not  go  to  the 
mansion  in  the  Rue  St  Florentin  where  the  Restor- 
ation had  been  hatched  ;  M.  dc  Talleyrand  could  not 
well  mount  the  five  flights  of  stairs  leading  to 

r*a   domicile.       They   confined    them 
talking  to  one  another  through    intermediari---.  there 

.in  interchange  of  diplomatic  noi 
I  -.ttrr   .  MI,    1  inmanded    the    fricinUhi| 

of    tin-  t     inter  the     nineteenth 

;l>naiid.    I  ..unart ine   and    I  .amcnnais. 

•d     that     their     genillfl     was 


3H  •"    Years  of  Recollections 

superior  to  his  own,  and  yet  all  three  submitted,  as 
it  were  to  his  dominion,  all  three  made  him  their 
confidant,  their  counsellor,  their  arbiter,  their  inter- 
media rv  in  the  most  critical  circumstances  of  their 
li\v-.  It  was  to  him  that  Lamartine  imparted  his 
dreams  of  financial  speculation,  Chateaubriand  his 
never-ending  complaints  of  money  worries,  Lamen- 
nais  the  misgivings  of  his  conscience.  Heaven  alone 
knows  how  many  days  he  spent  in  letting  in  some 
light  upon  the  darkness  of  Lamartine's  affairs.  As 
for  Chateaubriand's,  Be"ranger  used  to  sum  up  the 
situation  in  his  jocular  way  :  *  What's  the  good  of 
talking  ?  It  isn't  the  poor  fellow's  fault ;  he  has 
never  been  able  to  do  without  a  servant  to  help  him 
to  put  on  his  breeches.'  With  regard  to  Lamennais, 
Bdranger  did  all  he  could  to  prevent  him  from  fling- 
ing away  his  priestly  gown.  '  Remain  a  priest,'  he 
kept  on  saying  :  '  remain  a  priest,  you  haven't  the 
right  to  cease  being  a  priest.  Part  of  your  honour 
is  at  stake.  In  your  case,  leaving  the  Church  does 
not  mean  abdication,  it  means  desertion.'  Lamen- 
nais refused  to  be  guided  by  him  on  that  point,  but 
like  Bcranger's  other  two  friends,  continued  to  re- 
cognise the  value  of  and  to  accept  his  advice  in 

everything  else. 

II 

Whence  came  this  singular  influence  on  the  part  of 
a  mere  writer  of  songs  ?  It  sprang  from  three  things : 
first  from  his  innate  kindness.  I  never  met  with  a  kinder 


Si.vty    Years  of  Recollections  315 

creature.  He  was  charity  personified.  He  lavished 
his  time,  money,  advice  upon  others,  he  was  for  ever 
careering  hither  and  thither,  for  the  benefit  of  others. 
This  constant  pre-occupation  for  others  found  vent 
one  day  in  a  delightful  remark  of  his.  '  I  wonder,'  I 
said,  '  that  it  does  not  bore  you  to  dine  by  yourself  so 
often.  '  Faith,'  was  the  answer,  *  I  have  got  a  sovereign 
remedy  against  being  bored.  I  never  think  about 
myself.'  I  could  quote  hundreds  of  instances  of  his 
generosity.  A  poor  woman  whom  he  esteemed  and 
liked  very  much  came  to  confide  to  him  her  distress 
and  the  impossibility  of  finding  some  one  to  lend  her 
some  money.  '  How  much  do  you  want  ? '  asked 
BeVanger.  'Three  hundred  francs.'  In  those  days 
three  hundred  francs  was  an  important  sum  to 
Beranger.  '  Here  they  are/  says  Beranger,  going 
t«>  his  writing  desk.  'I'll  return  them  to  you  in 
six  months,  Monsieur  Ik-ranger. '  'Take  your  own 
time.'  At  the  end  of  six  months,  the  woman, 
faithful  to  her  promise,  brings  him  the  three  hundred 
francs,  which  he  puts  back  into  the  drawer  wh< 
he  had  taken  them.  After  a  twelvemonth  she 
'•s  once  more  to  ask  him  to  help  her.  He 
goes  to  his  writing  d  9  out  the  three  hundred 

:id  says,  '  I  felt  certain  you  would  be  oh. 
to  ask  for  them  again,  and  1  put  them  there  in 
while.  They  wen-  waiting  for  you.' 

The  second  cause  «  tiger's   inline:  his 

marvelloiii  commonse;i  <      The  advl  ,;ive  you 


316  i    Years  of  Recollections 

not  only  the  best  he  could  give  but  the  best 
that  could  be  given  to  you.  No  one  had  the  gift  to 
an  equal  degree  of  adapting  the  advice  to  the  in- 
telligence, character,  position  and  resources  of  the 
recipient.  Finally  there  was  the  third  cause  of  his 
great  influence.  That  sound  sense  always  assumed 
a  pungent  form  and  often  a  deeply  philosophical. 
It  never  ceased  to  be  sound  sense  and  there  was 
always  an  intellectual  flavour  about  it.  His  conver- 
sation was  not  only  charming  but  fruitful  in  suggest- 
ing ideas.  It  was  delightful  to  look  back  upon.  Not 
once  but  a  hundred  times  did  I  discover  that  this  or 
that  idea,  simply  enunciated  by  Beranger  in  the 
course  of  a  conversation  and  the  justice  of  which 
had  struck  me  at  the  time,  gradually  got  hold  of  my 
mind,  developed  and  grew  there,  until  it  finally  bore 
unexpected  fruit.  It  was  like  a  living  germ  deposited 
within  my  mind. 

Beranger  has  been  twitted  sometimes  with  carefully 
preparing  his  epigrams,  with  polishing  them  before- 
hand and  with  repeating  them  after  having  used  them 
once.  Admitting  the  truth  of  this  the  harm  would 
not  be  great,  they  were  assuredly  worth  repeating. 
When  Alfred  de  Musset  sent  him  his  first  poems,  he 
said  :  '  You  have  got  magnificent  horses  in  your 
stables,  but  you  do  not  know  how  to  drive  them.' 
Then  he  added  cheerfully  :  '  Never  mind,  you'll  know 
one  day;  unfortunately,  it  frequently  happens  that  by 
the  time  one  does  know,  the  horses  are  dead.'  He 


;;•    Years  of  Recollections  317 

equally  plain  spoken  with  Lamartine  who  never 
resented  it.  One  day,  while  talking  to  him  about 
'  Jocelyn  '  for  which  he  had  an  intense  admiration, 
he  remarked  '  What  a  splendid  poem,  my  dear  friend, 
a  poem  full  of  genius  of  deep  feeling  and  imagin- 
ation. But  why  the  deuce  did  you  put  those  two  or 
three  hundred  lines  in  which  must  have  been  written 
by  your  concierge?'  Lamartine  burst  out  laughing 
and  replied  as  frankly  :  '  Because,  my  dear  friend,  I 
am  suffering  from  the  serious  defect  of  not  being  able 
to  correct.'  Lamartine  was  right,  one  of  the  last 
editions  of  his  contains  Variants  which  are  simply  so 
many  blots  ;  whenever  Lamartine  changes  an  in- 
different line,  he  puts  a  worse  in  its  stead. 

1'.  not  equally  successful  in  his  part  of 

poetical    adviser    to    Victor    Hugo.      He    intensely 

admired  I  lugo's  lyrical  poems,  but  was  by  no  means 

enthusiastic  about  '  Le  Roi  s' Amuse.'*      I  le  was  afraid 

of  Victor    Hugo's  genius  mistaking  its  direction,  and 

called    his    imagination   to  his  aid   in   order  to   point 

out.      He  conceived    the    idea    of  assuming    the 

name  of  Triboulet  himself      '  Pray,  sire-,'  he  wrote,  'do 

your  fool  leave  to  tug  at  your  cloak  and  to  tell 

you   in   a   whisper  what   people  dare  not  say  to  you 

And  under  that  cover  of  the  fool's  cap  and 

bauble.  the  poet  some  very  subtle-,  just  and 

pointed,  though   withal    mcaMin<l    criticisms.      V 

and    remarked   in   a 

•  The  original  of  '  The  Fool's  Revenge  '  and  '  Rigoletto.'- 


318  .T    Years  of  Recollections 

way.     '  1   see  very  well   what  Beranger  is  driving  at 
with  this  letter.     He  certainly  thought  it  very  brilliant 
and   does  not  wish  it  to  be  lost  to  posterity,  so  he 
said   to   himself:   "At  Victor    Hugo's   death,  all  his 
papers  will  be  published  and  my  letter  amongst  them." 
But  I'll  upset  his  plan  and  will  burn  the  epistle.'     To 
which    Beranger    replied  jocularly :    'If  ever    I   feel 
inclined   to   address   something   to  posterity,  I  shall 
certainly  not  select  Victor  Hugo  as  the  carrier.'     Let 
me  hasten  to  add  that  Beranger  was  as  ready  to  hear 
the  truth  as  to  utter  it.     One  of  his  friends  somewhat 
impatient  at  hearing   him    adopt   about    himself  an 
humble    tone   which   was    not    absolutely   free   from 
affectation,   objected    to    it.     '  Look   here,    my   dear 
Beranger,  why  not  have  done  with  all  this  modesty, 
which   cannot  be  altogether  sincere.     After  all,  you 
know  well  enough  that  you  are  very-  talented.'     For  a 
moment  Beranger  sat  surprised  at  this  home  thrust 
and    remained    silent,   then    answered :    *  Well,   yes ; 
when  I  look  around  me,  when  I  read  what  is  being 
written    nowadays,    I  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
am  not  devoid  of  talent ;  but  my  dear  friend,  when  I 
begin  to  think  of  Corneille,  Moliere,  La  Fontaine  and 
other   great    men,  a   sincere   and   profound  spirit  of 
humility  comes  over  me.     Modesty,  after  all,  is  only 
the  spirit   of  comparison.'     This    is  but  one  of  the 
sensible   and   judicious  remarks  that  fell  constantly 
from  his  lips.     In  defining  modesty,  he  at  the  same 
time   defined    pride ;    for   if   modesty   can    only   be 


-;•    ]'t't?rs  of  Recollections  319 

maintained  by  comparing  one's  self  to  others,  pride 
can  only  effect  an  entrance  when  we  neglect  to  com- 

pare ourselves.* 

Ill 

Throughout  his  life  Beranger  has  had  two  great 
objects  of  predilection,  poor  folk  and  young  folk  ; 
one  of  the  lines  of  his  song  on  Manuel  runs  :  — 

'  Coeur,  tete  et  \  rns,  tout  e'tait  peuple  en  lui.' 

This  line  is  virtually  his  own  portrait  ;  he  was  of  the 
people,  he  understood  and  loved  the  people,  he  pre- 
ferred their  company  to  any  other.  The  blouse  and 
the  linen  jacket  pleased  him  a  great  deal  better  than 
the  broadcloth  coat.  If  a  working-man  happened  to 
call  upon  him  in  the  morning,  he  made  him  sit  clown 
to  breakfast  by  his  side.  His  great  admiration  for 
Saint  Paul  sprang  from  the  fact  that  Saint  Paul  while 

.  had  remained  a  weaver. 

for  the  interest  he  took  in  young  people,  1  need 

only    consult  my   own  recollections    and    proceed  to 

quote    from    them.  for    any  and 

yone  who  gave  the  faintest   hope  or  showed  the 

promise  of  talent  was  such  as  to  prompt  him 

frequently    to   go   to    b<  without   waiting   for 

•   1  M.   Legouve*  overrates  Be*r.injjer's  originality  in  this 

whom    M.    I.i-^nuvtf  mention-  in    the   first 


.or  of  his  'Recollections,'   naim-lv,    M.    Renault  ilc  Saint-Jean 
;>rovoked  a  sinv  the   Abbe*   (aftr- 

was   nettle  1   at  tin-   l.uicr's  'pride  of 
iv  what  he  really  thought  he  wa 
•  apart  fi 

surroundings,'  was  the  answer  ;  'a  g< 
them  '     lU:     i^-cr  simply  modified  the  propositi 


3 2O  :v    Yctirs  of  Recollections 

them  to  call  upon  him.  The  prize  awarded  to  me  by 
the  Academic-Franchise  for  my  poem  brought  me  a 
letter  from  his  pen.  He  wrote  to  me  from  '  La 
Force,'  where  he  was  undergoing  a  month's  imprison- 
ment, and  after  having  conveyed  his  gratulations 
in  the  most  flattering  and  sympathetic  terms,  he 
invited  me  to  go  and  see  him.  It  is  scarcely  credible 
but  I  neither  went  to  see  him  nor  replied  to  his  letter. 
Why,  <»h,  why  ?  Because  I  was  too  timid,  because  I 
felt  a  kind  of  false  shame.  Young  people  often  suffer 
from  those  unaccountable  scruples.  In  those  days 
my  admiration  for  great  men  was  so  intense  that 
more  than  once  I  went  as  far  as  their  door  without 
having  the  courage  to  ring  the  bell.  I  remember  that 
every  now  and  then  while  talking  to  M.  Lemercier, 
I  suddenly  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence, 
saying  to  myself :  *  What's  the  use  of  telling  him. 
He  knows  every  word  of  what  I  am  going  to  say  to 
him.'  It  was  absurd,  but  at  that  time  I  was  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  youth  in  itself  possesses  such  a  charm 
as  to  convert  its  awkwardness  into  gracefulness  and 
that  people  take  an  affectionate  delight  in  watching 
young  people's  confusion. 

As  soon  as  B6ranger  came  out  of  prison,  I  wrote 
him  a  letter,  expressing  my  regret  and  apologising 
for  my  neglect  which  brought  me  the  following  reply. 
I  transcribe  it  in  extenso  and  without  expunging  the 
flattering  remarks,  because  they  testify  to  his  loving 
sympathy  with  young  beginners. 


Sixty    Years  of  Recollections  321 

'MONSIEUR, — M.  de  Jouy  had  indeed  apprised  me  of 
your  intending  visit  to  La  Force,  and  I  felt  proud  to 
think  that  a  brow  with  the  laurels  fresh  upon  it  would 
stoop  beneath  the  prison  gates  in  order  to  come  and 
see  me.  I  am  glad  that  our  friend  told  you  of  my 
disappointment,  seeing  that  to-day  I  am  indebted  to 
it  for  a  proof  of  your  appreciation,  which,  believe  me, 
affects  me  very  much.  I  read  the  verses  to  which 
you  owe  your  public  success,  long  ago,  and  the  poem 
contains  something  even  more  precious  than  beauti- 
ful verses ;  the  feelings  which  pervade  the  whole  at- 
i  lofty  soul,  and  I  cannot  but  rejoice,  monsieur, 
to  find  that  everything  in  you  foreshadows  the 

liy  bearer  of  an  already  illustrious  name.  It 
only  makes  me  more  anxious  to  become  acquainted 
with  you.  If  I  knew  the  exact  day  you  intended 
calling,  I  would  make  it  a  point  of  remaining  at 
home  to  welcome  you,  for  except  on  Thursdays  I  am 

ly  always  running  about  on  business,  which 
makes  me  afraid  of  missing  your  promised  visit  un- 

you  would  be  good  enough  to  appoint  the  day. 

Hut,  after  all,  moiisu-ur,   I    have  one  other  resource 

left,  namely,  to  call  upon  you,  in  order  to  express  my 

nd  cordial  feelings,  and  the  interest  which   I 

•  wards  you. 

'Your  very  humble  servant, 

•  BBS  \  . 


">ctof>tr  30,  1829. 
II. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

Here    is    his   second    letter.       I    had    published    a 

me  of    poems    under    the   title   of  '  Les    Morts 

Hi/arres'  and  sent  him   a  copy,  asking  him  at  the 

same  time  for  his  advice.     It  was  his  answer  to  my 

request. 

4  MONSIEUR, — The  most  skilful  way  of  getting 
cd  by  the  majority  of  men,  and  above  all,  by 
those  who  are  advanced  in  years,  is  to  ask  their  advice. 
I  am  perfectly  certain,  though,  that  no  such  inten- 
tion prompted  your  request  for  my  advice.  If  I  could 
harbour  such  an  idea  for  a  moment,  the  candour  with 
which  every  one  of  your  lines  is  stamped  would  be 
the  most  effectual  appeal  against  such  a  suspicion  ; 
hence,  monsieur,  since  you  have  appealed  to  my 
candour,  my  praise  will  be  somewhat  stinted. 

*  I  like  the  elegy  to  the  memory  of  your  father 
exceedingly ;  the  sentiment  by  which  it  is  inspired 
throughout  makes  it  touching  from  the  first  line  to 
the  last.  I  should  regret  its  greater  perfection, 
because  a  more  correct  style  and  a  more  concise 
fnrm  would  hamper  the  expressions  of  your  heart 
and  contrast  painfully  with  them. 

'  But  it  seems  to  me  that  the  subsequent  pieces, 
with  the  exception,  however,  of  the  fragment  on 
"  Maria  Lucrezia,"  which  I  except  because  it  is  full  of 
feeling  like  the  elegy,  would  have  required  more 
careful  workmanship,  a  less  "happy-go-lucky"  phrase- 
ology, a  greater  firmness  of  versification  and  often  a 


of  Recollections  323 

more  sparing  use  of  detail.  Nowadays,  monsieur, 
finished  versification  has  become  compulsory.  That 
finish  is  often  carried  to  the  verge  of  affectation  and 
this  may  be  the  cause  of  your  dislike  to  it.  Hut 
you  are  too  enlightened  not  to  avail  yourself  of  the 
good  there  may  be  in  a  thing. 

By  this  time  you  are  becoming  aware  of  my 
freely  using  the  permission  you  have  granted  me ; 
I  may,  perhaps,  be  led  to  abuse  it. 

'  The  title  of  your  collection  of  poems,  which 
implies  a  premeditated  choice  of  subjects,  was  cal- 
culated to  inspire  me  with  a  certain  mistrust  of  the 
subject  themselves.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
accident  suggested  two  of  the  subjects  to  your  mind  ; 
after  that,  you  probably  looked  for  the  third  and  the 
next  Ought  the  real  poet,  and  you  are  one,  mon- 
sieur.  to  proceed  in  that  way  without  being  compelled  ? 
poet's  idea  should  be  like  the  female  flower;  it 
should  await  the  fertilising  dust  the  male  flings  into 
air,  and  confides  to  the  winds.  A  subject  de- 
liberately looked  for  will  rarely  command  the  inspira- 
tion ution  reijiiir 

'And   here  I  must   interrupt   myself  for  a  moment, 
•i    looking  over  what   I  have   written,  I   feel  s«>me- 
\\ha:  d  of  the   part  you   have  assigned  to 

innocence  of  1 

For    it    is   no  doubt   a   \  ,   to  make  a 

some  .miniated     s,  >ng    writer     like     m 

hoolmaster  ;   and    I    <  annot  help 


324  J  'ears  of  Recollections 

laughing  at  it  myself,  though  it  will  not  prevent  me 
from  treating  the  second  heading  of  my  sermon. 

1^  Mort  de  Charles-Quint,"  monsieur,  contains 
some  very  noble  passages,  and  the  drama  seems  to 
me  as  complete  as  the  framework  would  allow. 
Nevertheless,  I  prefer  to  it  "Phalere"  which  is 
founded  upon  a  powerful  and  true  idea,  rendered 
very  happily.  As  for  "  Pompei,"  some  passages  struck 
me  as  very  inferior,  but  others  gave  me  the  impres- 
sion of  unquestionable  merit,  such  as  for  instance  that 
of  "  The  Slave  "  and  that  of  "  The  Last  Love  Couple.'1 
The  latter  have  reconciled  me  to  the  unsatisfactory 
tone  of  the  poem  as  a  whole.  If  I  am  to  sum  up  my 
impression,  monsieur,  I  will  frankly  tell  you  that 
throughout  the  volume  there  is  ample  proof  of  real 
talent,  of  inspired  talent,  but  which  lacks  a  deter- 
mined purpose.  You  appear,  up  till  now,  not  to 
have  asked  yourself  in  what  way  to  utilise  the  happy 
gifts  accorded  to  you  by  nature,  and  pending  the 
revelation  in  that  respect  by  your  own  vocation,  you 
are  beguiling  the  time  with  preludes  on  a  lyre,  the 
whole  resources  of  which  you  are  already  fully  able 
to  appreciate. 

'Yes,  monsieur,  I  trust  that,  encouraged  by  the 
memory  of  a  father  so  justly  regretted,  you  may  add 
to  the  'glory  of  the  reputation  he  has  bequeathed  to 
you.  As  far  as  I  am  able  to  judge,  you  have  only 
to  work  and  to  persevere  in  order  to  accomplish 
this. 


Sixty   Years  of  Recollections  325 

'  Pray  excuse  the  length  of  this  letter  and  my 
frankness  which  is  perhaps  somewhat  too  great  At 
the  age  of  twenty  I  had  the  pleasure  of  coming  in 
contact  twice  with  the  author  of  "  Le  Merite  des 
Femmes."  As  a  matter  of  course  we  talked  about 
poetry  ;  he  was  kind  enough  to  give  me  some  sterling 
advice  which  I  have  not  forgotten.  My  letter,  I  trust, 
will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not  ungrateful.  I  only 
regret  my  inability  to  discharge  my  debt  more 
hily.  But  I  cannot  help  repeating  :  what  induced 
you  to  apply  for  literary  advice  to  a  song  writer  who 
does  not  even  know  Latin? 

*  Pray,  accept,  monsieur,  the  assurance  of  my  great 
esteem  and  my  sincere  devotion. 

'BERANGEk. 

Starch  10,  1832.' 

This  is  a  curious  letter  in  more  than  one  respect. 

To  begin  with,  it  shows  the  uncommon  candour  of 

tiger,  his  great  faculty  of  judgment  and  at  the 

same  time  a  peculiar   trait   of  his    character.     Like 

most  people  fond  of  bantering  others,  he  stood  greatly 

ir  of  being  bantered  ;   like  most  clever  people  he 

stoo<  >eing  selected  as  the  victim  of 

T  people  ness  or  even  of  exposing  himself 

ion  of  being  made  such  a  victim.      I  le  is 

always  on  his  ^  linst    such    a    possibility       1 

not  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  point  out  this 

,    that    it    diminishes    in   no  way  his 


326  .y   Years  of  Recollections 

innate   sentiments    of   justice,   goodness   and    moral 

force. 

'  Les  Morts  Bizarres '  met  with  but  a  meagre  success 
and  I  felt  greatly  discouraged.  For  a  little  while  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  abandon  poetry  and  to  go  to 
the  bar ;  for  a  little  while  only.  Nevertheless,  I  felt 
in  a  state  of  painful  uncertainty.  I  really  did  not 
know  which  road  to  choose.  My  prize  poem  had  no 
doubt  put  my  foot  in  the  stirrup,  but  several  roads 
were  open  to  me  and  I  did  not  know  which  to  choose. 
I  had  reached  that  painful  period  when  a  young 
fellow  is  feeling  in  his  way.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
consult  Beranger.  Here  is  his  reply — 

*  Have  you  an  idea,  monsieur,  of  the  awkward,  nay, 
the  fearful  predicament  you  place  me  in  by  honouring 
me  with  your  confidence  ?  Are  you  aware  that  you 
are  virtually  asking  me  to  preside  at  your  literary 
existence?  No  doubt,  this  is  a  great  proof  of  your 
esteem,  and  I  cannot  but  feel  greatly  impressed  by  it, 
but  unfortunately  this  is  not  sufficient  for  me  to  accept 
a  mentorship  of  that  nature.  In  your  letter  you 
stand  self-accused  of  not  having  been  to  see  me 
sufficiently  often  ;  well,  monsieur,  this  confession  on 
your  part  explains  my  hesitation  to  reply  to  your 
letter,  amiable  as  it  is  in  that  respect.  How,  in  fact, 
can  one  lay  down  a  rule  of  conduct  for  a  man  whom 
one  has  not  had  the  opportunity  and  time  to  study. 
Your  reply  will  be  that  I  have  read  your  different 


y  of  Recollections  327 

essays.  Is  this  sufficient,  think  you  ?  A  few  works 
more  or  less  able  (for  I  am  not  so  severe  towards  you 
as  you  are  yourself)  only  afford  the  measure  of  a 
man's  intellectual  qualities.  But  how  can  I  decide 
with  regard  to  the  character  of  the  man.  "  What  does 
that  matter  ? "  most  of  our  young  men  would  say. 
According  to  me,  it  matters  much,  especially  in  an 
epoch  like  ours  when  one  should  look  for  no  support 
except  from  one's  self.  Without  attempting  a  thorough 
appreciation  of  your  character,  I  have  got  an  idea  that 
you  possess  dominant  tastes  which  are  bound  to  influ- 
ence the  tendency  of  your  mind  ;  and  unfortunately  I 
am  absolutely  in  the  dark  with  regard  to  those  tastes. 
You  have  the  misfortune  to  be  what  people  call  a 
young  fellow  in  happy  circumstances.  From  the 
moment  of  your  birth,  fate  has  smiled  upon  you. 
You  yourself  admit  that  but  for  that  craving  for 
glory,  nothing  would  be  wanting  to  your  happiness, 
r  mind,  that  happens  to  be  your  own  particular 
fad,  I  would  fain  cure  you  of  it  ;  but  when  fate  gives 
:it,  the  chances  are  that  she  gives  us  one 
thing  too  many.  Well,  my  dear  lad,  go  on  pursuing 

hich    domes   to    us    from    tin- 
middle  of  the  wilderness,  take  care  it  does  not  drag 
you  thither.     Then-    ifl   only  one  way  open  to  you 
to  avoid  such   misfortune;   try  to  In-  useful.       That  is 
law    God    imposes  on    every   man,   in    literature 
that  law  becomes  more-  stringent  than  ever.      Do  not 
those  who  are  content  with   art    for  .1: 


3-S  Sixty   Years  of  Recollections 

try  to  find  out  whether  there  does  not  exist  within 
yourself  some  creed  of  humanity  or  patriotism  on 
which  you  may  hang  your  efforts  and  your  thoughts. 
You  have  a  kind  heart,  a  generous  and  liberal  mind  ; 
as  yet,  the  world  cannot  have  succeeded  in  spoiling 
them  by  its  flatteries,  it  cannot  have  removed  all 
feeling  of  sympathy  for  your  fellow  creatures.  Well, 
that  sentiment,  if  properly  consulted,  will  prove  a 
safer  guide  in  your  studies  and  your  work  than 
anything  the  most  learned  men  can  tell  you  ;  such 
a  sentiment  has  sufficed  to  make  of  me,  weakling  as 
•I  am,  something ;  something  very  fragile,  no  doubt, 
but  after  all,  something. 

'  My  language,  monsieur,  will  no  doubt  surprise  you, 
it  is  so  utterly  unlike  anything  you  are  in  the  habit  of 
hearing  in  your  own  set,  but  believe  me,  I  am  only 
trying  to  explain  the  principles  that  have  guided 
my  conduct  since  I  attained  the  age  of  discrimina- 
tion ;  that  hour  struck  very  early  for  me,  for  at  fifteen 
I  was  obliged  to  assume  the  duties  of  a  man  and  to 
look  to  my  own  education.  To  those  who  would 
oppose  the  example  of  a  great  poet  to  that  of  an 
humble  songster  and  who  would  tell  you  that  Byron 
had  no  faith,  I  would  say  that  Byron,  the  representa- 
tive of  an  aristocratic  state  of  things,  which  is  fast 
tumbling  to  pieces  and  disappearing,  could  only  have 
had  negative  beliefs.  But  they  were,  after  all,  beliefs, 
and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  were,  in  a  certain 
sense,  as  strong  as  his  genius  was  magnificent.  Be- 


y   Years  of  Recollections  329 

lieving,  as  he  must  have  done,  that  the  aristocracy  was 
the  flower  of  humankind  and  seeing  it  blasted  on  all 
sides,  he  could  not  but  curse  and  reach  that  state 
of  misanthropy,  furious  and  ironical  in  turns,  which 
has  been  so  idiotically  aped  in  France.  But  what 
is  misanthropy  after  all  ?  Simply  a  disappointed 
ill-requited  love  passion. 

'  At  your  age  the  love  passion  is  attended  by  hap- 
pier results  ;  your  heart  is  in  the  full  flush  of  youth, 
let  its  concern  be  for  others  as  well  as  for  yourself; 
extend  the  scope  of  your  investigations,  and  above 
all  do  not  be  misled  by  the  fictitious  surroundings 
amidst  which  happy  circumstances  have  placed  you. 
Your  mind  and  heart  will  soon  find  food  for  your 

itations,  and  one  day  when  you  least  expect  it 
their  direction  will  be  revealed  to  you.     Nature  has 
mapped  out  the  use  for  every  faculty  she  bestows,  we 
only   to   go   on    looking   for    it    long   enough. 
Lear  ig  that    you  are   fit   to    learn  ;  med 

seeing  that  you  can  command   leisure  to  meditate ; 
but,  above  all,  let  your  concern  be  more  for  ot 
• 

'  I  feel  that  all  this  "senile  drivel,"  will  appear  \ 
vague,   nay,  ridiculous  to  you;    pray  do   not    mind 

:ig  me  so;  you  asked  m  ;  Ivice,  and  I   im- 

parted my  secret  to  you,  it  was  the  l>est  way  to  show 
that   trust   begets  trust      I    sincerely  hope  that 
you  will  look  upon  this  letter  as  a  proof  of  friendship 
and  esteem.      I    wish    you   to  believe   in   those   my 


StJi'tv    Yctu-s  of  Recollections 

feelings  for  you  and  to  consider  me  at  your  disposal 
whenever  you  may  want  me.  It  will  never  be  too 
often.  With  all  my  heart,  yours, 

*  BERANGER.' 

I  consider  it  wisest  not  to  add  anything  to  this 
letter.  Its  publication  is  prompted  by  a  deep  feeling 
of  gratitude  and  by  the  hope  that  it  may  prove  as 
useful  as  it  has  proved  to  me,  for  this  letter  has  often 
stood  me  instead  of  counsellor.* 


*  Of  all  the  portraits  in  this  'Gallery'  there  is  not  one  so  strikingly 
'  like '  as  that  of  Beranger.  What  is  perhaps  more  curious  still  with 
regard  to  his  literary  influence  is,  that  after  many  years  it  remains  with 
the  educated  classes.  It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  heafr  people  in  the 
best  society  clamour  for  a  song  of  Beranger.  There  never  was  a  soiree 
at  M.  Thiers'  in  which  his  friend,  Mignet  a  great  professor,  did  not  get 
up  and  recite  one. — TR. 


THE    END 


THIRTY-FIFTH  THOl'SAXD  OF  THE 

KREUTZER    SONATA 

TR.l.  \'SLA  TED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN  OF  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI 

By  H.  SUTHERLAND  EDWARDS 

Paper  covers,  is  ;  post  free,  is  2d.     230  pages. 


4  There  are  touches  of  characteristic  realism.  The  "  Kreutzer  Sonata  " 
is  admirably  translate-!.' — Vanity  Fair. 

4  Is  the  best  English  version  which  we  have  se^n  of  Count  Tolstoi's 
much-talked-of  novel.' — Sunday  limes. 

'Mr  Sutherland  Edwards  has  translated  the  "  Kreutzer  Sonata"  into 
fluent  and  idiomatic  English.  It  ought  to  be  read.' — St  James's  Gazette. 

4  Its  merit  is  in  its  courageous  and  masterly  handling  of  a  very  old,  but 
what  of  late  years  has  become  a  very  grave  and  pressing  problem — that  of 
nrirriage.' — Evening  News  and  Post. 

'  It  is  a  striking  story.' — Daily  Graphic. 

4  Like  most  novels  by  that  famous  writer,  it  displa\  irks  of 

re  il  genius,  and  cannot  he  re:i  1  without  instruction,  as  well  as  entertain- 
ment.'— People. 

'  A  very  neat  and  cheap  edition  of  this  story  by  M.  Tolstoi,  one  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  fiction  in  Northern  Europe.' — NtwcastU  Chronicle. 

'The  story  is  sensational,  seamy,  an J  rather  gruesome;  but  M 
cllously  clever.' — Fift 

hows  no  falling  off  in  power  from  any  of  his  former  works.'— 

:>y  World. 

'Count  Tolstoi  has  succeele>!  :  a  most  powerful  si 

(rtiardian. 


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THE  ARCHBISHOP  AND  THE  THREE  OLD 

MEN.     By  COUNT  LEO  TOLSTOI.      Translated  from 
the  Russian  by  Rosamond  Venning. 

The  Daily  Chronicle  says — 'A  curious  little  allegory  by  Count 
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careful  finish,  deftness  of  handling,  and  sound  workmanship  show  that  the 
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PQ  Legouve*,    Ernest 
2337  Sixty  years  of 

L23Z513  recollections 
v.2